“And then I have the”—I pause to adopt a spooky tone and horror movie fingers—“spa day.”
He frowns, almost believably. He’s far too pleased about this timing. “Such a shame it’s a game day. Because I will be napping. I need it after this morning.”
He doesn’t mean the sex we had. Glad he feels the same.
“And I think I need cucumbers on my eyes to process allthat,” I say, waving my hand to the table, the scene of all the unpacking. “That was a lot. But a good a lot.”
“It was definitely a good a lot.”
Where do we go from here? The wedding tomorrow, of course. There’s also the list. I don’t think either one of us expected to knock off two items today. We’re pretty much done, and the ending of the list looms even bigger than the wedding.
The quiet grows, and I should try to make it better. But maybe it’s okay that it’s awkward.
Lake swallows roughly, then says, “Will I see you tonight?”
The way he asks—vulnerable, like it’s hard for him but worth doing—stirs something inside my soul. Makes me want to write our plans in ink for the evening. Throw my arms around him and tell him he’s making me feel far too much far too soon. “I hope so,” I say.
“I’ll call you after the game.”
“Good. You better,” I say.
“Promise.” He tugs on my sweater, then drops a poignant kiss to my lips.
When he pulls apart, he sneers at my sweater. “This won’t do.”
“Why? This is a cute sweater,” I ask, then rattle off its attributes. It’s burgundy, it’s soft, it’s secondhand.
But he’s striding back to his bedroom and once he’s around the corner, I turn to Thor, who perks up an ear from the cat tower. A second later, he drops his head back, returning to his slumber, uninterested in humans. “You have no guilt over the broken plate,” I say to the cat as he covers his eyes with white paws to show me exactly how uninterested in me he is.
Lake returns with a purple and white jersey draped over his arm and a cocky look on his face. He closes the distance between us, then tugs the bag off my arm.
I’m smiling stupidly as he sets my bag on the floor, since I know what’s coming.
He drops the jersey over my head. I shimmy it on the rest of the way over my sweater. I’m swimming in it. I run my polished nail along the number 7.
“Wear this to spa day,” he instructs. “It’s hot, like you. And it says you’re mine.”
Heat rises in me at the same time my heart dares to flutter. I dip a toe in emotion-infested waters, but just a toe. “We haven’t finished the list.”
The unsaid corollary? There’s no way we’ll have time to go camping before my sister’s wedding.
He smiles. “We’ll figure it out.”
That feels like a promise. That maybe the list’s inevitable ending could be a new beginning. I swivel around to go, but he clears his throat. “Remy,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“Yes?”
“You’re like a hummingbird.”
It’s the highest of compliments from him, and I want to cup it in my hands. “Why’s that?”
“You make me happy.”
It’s a miracle I’m able to leave without melting into a puddle.
* * *
This time on the way to work I don’t stare out the window and avoid planning dates as I daydream of Lake. Nope, I face my romance planner’s block head-on. By grabbing the loose thread, I unravel the sweater I’ve been making for the last year.
