He looks at me like I’ve hung the moon. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m hungover and probably still smell like tequila.”
“You smell like vanilla. You always smell like vanilla.” He pulls me close again. “I can’t believe you’re here. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up, and this will all be a dream.”
“It’s not a dream.” I lean up and kiss him softly. “I’m here. I’m staying. Well, not staying, staying. I have to return to Denver to pack and close on the business and everything. But I’m coming back. For good.”
“When?”
“After New Year’s. We close on the business on January second.”
“That’s a week away.”
“I know.”
“That’s too long.”
I smile against his lips. “But then I’ll be here. Really here. For good.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “I should probably mention,” he says when we finally come up for air, “my family is coming over later for Christmas Eve dinner. My parents, my brothers, my grandmother.”
Panic flares. “Oh God. I’m meeting your parents. Today? Looking like this?”
“You look beautiful.”
“I look hungover.”
“You look beautiful.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “And they’re going to love you. Fair warning, though, my grandmother is going to interrogate you. My brothers are going to embarrass me. And my mom is probably going to cry.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It is. But you’ll survive. And, Sloane?”
“Yeah?”
“Your sister and Riley are invited, too. I organized via Everett. They’re on their way.”
“You invited them?”
“While you were driving. Figured if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. Meeting each other’s people formally. Starting our lives together. All of it.”
Tears well up in my eyes. “How are you real?”
“I ask myself the same thing about you every day.” He kisses my forehead. “Come on. Let me give you the tour before everyone gets here. I want to show you everything.” He takes my hand and leads me through the house, pointing out each room. The kitchen that needs updating. The living room with the fireplace. The office that could be anything. The bedroom upstairs with windows that look out over the property.
“That could be your office,” he says, pointing to the empty room. “If you wanted. If you ever wanted to work from home or needed space or ... I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“No, you’re not.” I squeeze his hand. “Show me everything. I want to see it all.”
So, he does. He shows me the barn that’s half-renovated. The chicken coop where I finally meet the famous chickens who’ve been staging coups and protests. The fields that are covered in snow now, but will be green in spring.
“This is where I want to plant a garden,” he says, pointing to a spot near the house. “Vegetables for us. Flowers for you. Whatever you want.”
“For us,” I repeat softly.
