“Boring.” He drops his duffel bag on the floor and catches me around the waist, pulling me onto the couch. “Tell me more about your day.”
“About what?”
“Anything.” He slides his hand just under the hem of my tank top, finding the bare skin of my waist, and makes an undeniably happy sound. “I want to know everything about you. What kept you so busy this afternoon?”
“I scrubbed in on a trauma surgery.”
“Wow. How was that?”
“Intense. Educational. Humbling.”
We stare at each other for a minute, then I lift my attention to his hair, which is curling onto his forehead in a different way than it did in Vegas. “Is your hair curly?”
I reach up and wind the errant lock around my finger.
“Yeah, if I don’t blow dry it, it does that.”
That little detail makes my tummy flip flop. “I didn’t take you as a blow dry guy.”
“I contain multitudes. I’m not precious about it, but growing up with a bossy sister…you learn some things that make your life easier.”
“Knife skills, hair drying techniques.” I nod along. “Your sister sounds smart.”
“Hopefully you can tell her that at the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
“Her wedding.” He gives me a hopeful look. “This summer.”
“You want me to be your date to your sister’s wedding?”
His brows knit together. “You’re my wife.”
“This is also our second date!” I’m blushing like mad.
He brushes his fingers against my cheek. “God, I love the way you turn pink. What are you thinking right now?”
“I’m nervous about meeting your family.”
“I’m not. They’re going to love you.” He grins. “I’m going to love showing you off.”
“That’s very caveman of you.”
“Not all of my multitudes are good.” He grins shamelessly.
“Zero shame, huh?”
“I don’t think I need any with you. I want you to get to know the real me, all of me. Even the parts that I might want to shave off or refine to be better for you.”
“Like the possessive caveman parts?”
“Oh no, that’s not going to get polished away. There’s something about you that makes me very primal.” He growls, low in his throat, and pulls me fully onto his lap to straddle him.
I press my hands against his chest and my thumb hits a hard metal loop under his shirt.
“My ring,” he says, fishing it out.
The band he wore on his left hand yesterday is now on a chain around his neck.
