That makes me pause. “Yeah?”
Garrik looks at me, his face a little softer now—hesitant, even, which is crazy because I am so head over heels for this man. “Pan thinks you’re moving in. Flora keeps calling you my girlfriend. And Davrin…” He shakes his head with a smile. “Davrin’s already asked me what kind of ring I think you’d want.”
My chest goes tight in the best way.
I take a sip of wine to hide the emotion in my throat, then say, “Well. If you keep feeding me like this, Imightstart thinking about it.”
Garrik grins. “Noted.”
“And Davrin?”
“Yeah?”
“I like sparkles and the color green,” I whisper.
His smile is so big I think it might break something.
We linger at the table long after we’ve finished eating, fingers twined on the tabletop, the last of the wine sipped slowly between stolen glances and lazy conversation. He tells me about the pollen yield this season and how Little Wing’s been acting like queen of the whole garden. I tell him about a particularly ridiculous book I read once where the heroine seduced a warlord using only baked goods and scented paper.
“Tempting,” he says, deadpan. “But I think I prefer your current strategy.”
“Which is?”
“Flushed cheeks. No panties. Reading smut while I cook.”
I laugh so hard I nearly choke on the last of my wine.
When the plates are cleared and the candle’s burned down low, I follow him back into the kitchen where he rinseseverything in the deep basin sink. I dry. We don’t talk much now. There’s no need.
It’s quiet. Comfortable.
Like we’ve done this a hundred times.
Like we’ll do it a hundred more.
When the last dish is put away, he turns to me with that same quiet awe he’s had since the garden. “Come here,” he murmurs.
I do.
And when he lifts me into his arms—when he carries me to bed—I don’t feel like a guest.
I feel like I belong.
12
IRIS
Garrik carries me like I weigh nothing.
One arm hooked over my thighs, the other bracing my back, his chest solid and warm against mine as he moves through the cottage toward the bedroom. My arms loop around his neck automatically, and I nuzzle into the space beneath his jaw, breathing him in.
He smells like…flour and citrus and wildflowers. Like the kitchen and the garden and the honey-warm memories of nights on Earth when he kept me safe.
He smells like home.
I don’t ever want to part from him again.
The bedroom door creaks open and shuts behind us with a soft click. Moonlight spills through the high windows, painting the space in cool blue shadows and soft silver glow. Some alien insect chirps outside the window, birds singing, fluttering wings.
