“My two favorite women,” he says, his voice rough with sleep. “Plotting something?”
“Always,” Queenie replies cheerfully. “We’re planning your birthday party. Thinking circus theme. Maybe hire some clowns.”
“Absolutelynot!” He moves behind me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head before reaching for the coffee I poured him. “No clowns. I draw the line at clowns.”
“What about a mariachi band?” I suggest leaning back against his bare chest. “Or interpretive dancers?”
“You’re both hilarious.”
“We know,” Queenie and I say in unison, then dissolve into laughter.
Nitro shakes his head, but his smile is genuine, reaching all the way to his eyes. This is what happiness looks like on him. Not the corporate smile he used to wear like armor but real joy. Unguarded and free.
“I’m going to shower,” Queenie announces, sliding off her stool. “You two kids behave yourselves.”
“Always do,” Nitro calls after her, then waits exactly three seconds after she’s out of earshot before spinning me around and lifting me onto the counter.
“Nitro!” I squeal, laughing as he steps between my legs. “She literally just left.”
“I heard you talking,” he murmurs against my neck, his hands spanning my waist. “About Derek. About guilt.”
My laughter fades. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” He pulls back to look at me, his dark eyes serious. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say honestly. “Queenie helped. She’s good at that.”
“She’s the best.” His thumbs trace circles on my hips. “But so are you, Small Town. You saved me six months ago. You save me every damn day.”
“You saved yourself,” I argue softly. “I just stood beside you while you did.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You held me together when I was falling apart. You believed in me when the whole world thought I was an attempted murderer. You loved me through the worst shit I’ve ever been through, and you never wavered. Not once. Even after I lied to you.”
“Because I love you,” I whisper. “All of you. That’s never going to change.”
Then he leans in and kisses me, deep and slow, tasting like coffee and promise. When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing harder.
“I need to get ready for work,” I murmur against his lips.
“Call in sick.”
“I’m the Creative Director. I can’t just call in sick.”
“You’re the Creative Director who’s also the boss’s Old Lady. I think they’ll make an exception.”
I laugh, pushing at his chest. “That’sexactlywhy I can’t call in sick. I have to work twice as hard to prove I earned this position.”
“Everyone knows you earned it.” His voice is fierce with pride. “You’re crushing it at Blackwell, Marley. The Colosseum campaign you spearheaded? Brilliant. The social media strategy you implemented? Increased engagement by forty percent. You’re not riding my coattails, baby. You’re making your own path.”
Warmth floods through me. Six months ago, I was terrified of being seen as the boss’s girlfriend who got a cushy job through connections. But I’ve proven myself, campaign after campaign, strategy after strategy. The whispers have stopped. Now, when people see me in the office, they see Marley Wren, Creative Director, not just Damon Blackwell’s girl.
Though I’m definitely still Damon Blackwell’s girl.
And Nitro’s Old Lady.
“What time is your meeting with the board?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair.
“Two o’clock.” He grimaces slightly. “They want to discuss the new acquisition. It’s going to be a long afternoon.”
