“For real.”
“Ken.” He turned to look at her fully, his face lit up before he could stop it. “How you even know about that?”
“You told me. That night at the ranch when we were stargazing. You said you’d always wanted to go but never made time.” She shrugged like it was nothing, but her heart was full watching his face. “So I’m making time.”
He leaned over, kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. “I love you.”
“You better.”
He laughed and pulled back onto the highway, his hand finding hers on the center console.
The museum was everything she’d hoped it would be.
The moment they walked through the doors, Rolani transformed he became animated in a way she rarely saw outside their private moments. He moved from car to car with the same intensity he brought to his work, reading every placard, studying every detail, explaining the history and engineering with such passion that it made her fall in love with him all over again.
“Look at this,” he said, stopping in front of a 1953 Corvette, the first production model. “This is where it started, baby. Three hundred hand-built cars. Polo White with red interior. Straight-six engine.”
She stood beside him, one hand on her lower back, watching his face more than the car. “You really love this stuff.”
“This is history. American muscle. Innovation.” He moved closer to the display, eyes tracking every curve. He went quiet. She slipped her hand into his and held on. They wandered for almost an hour before he noticed her shifting her weight from foot to foot, rubbing her back.
“A’ight, we’re sitting down.” He steered her toward a bench near the Sinkhole exhibit.
“I’m fine?—”
“Ken, sit.” He guided her down gently, then crouched in front of her, hands on her knees. “You’ve been on your feet too long. Rest for a minute.”
“It’s your birthday. I’m supposed to be?—”
“You’re supposed to be taking care of yourself and my son.” His voice was firm but gentle. “That’s how you take care of me. Understand?”
She wanted to argue, but his hands were already on her swollen ankles, rubbing gently, and it felt too good to protest.
“When we get home, you’re putting your feet up for the rest of the night,” he said.
“We still have dinner.”
“What?”
She smiled. “There’s one more surprise. But it’s back home at Luther’s.”
“Damn baby, there’s more?” His expression broke open, gratitude, emotion, all the things he usually kept buried. He pressed a kiss to her palm.
“I told you. You deserve to be celebrated.”
He stood, helped her up, and pulled her into a hug that was more about holding on than letting go. “Thank you,” he said against her hair. “For all of it.”
“Always.”
The drive back was easier. She dozed off somewhere around the halfway point, his hand on her thigh, the hum of the engine lulling her to sleep. When she woke up, they were pulling into the parking lot at Luther’s.
The restaurant was closed—a sign on the door said “Private Event”—but the lights were on inside. Through the window, she could see Robin moving around the kitchen, Monroe setting tables, soft music playing.
“They really did all this,” Rolani said quietly.
“They love you.” She took his hand. “We all do.”
Inside, Robin came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel, grinning.
