I know she loves me. She’s wearing my mom’s ring. She promised my parents, at their graves, that she’ll take care of me.
“But I should warn you,” I tell her, “if you don’t say the L-word between now and the time I undress you in my—our—bedroom and make passionate love to you again, I might have to do something drastic like point it out. There may even be pouting.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
I glance at her again and she bites her lip.
“Tease,” I mutter.
She laughs. “It’s not that Imeanto deprive you of that word. It just hasn’t flowed out yet.”
“Uh-huh. And now you’re holding it in just to drive me crazy.”
“Ilove... the way you get worked up when you don’t get your way,” she says in a sultry voice.
I say nothing, just focus on the road ahead as my pulse beats in my cock. It’s crazy, how vulnerable I still feel. How much I want—no,need, viscerally, completely—to be loved by this woman.
My fiancée.
Those damn doves take flight in my chest as she laughs again, a soft, happy sound.
We’re nearing the turnoff to Orchard Cove when she says, “Hey, Mason. Did you make this playlist ... for any particular reason?” Finally, she seems to clue in that every song that’s been playing has been forher.
“What? I can’t listen to an eclectic variety of totally random music?”
“Yeah, it’s just a total coincidence that you’re now listening to girly pop all the time. And romantic ballads. And a random mix of classics like ‘Harvest Moon,’ that just happen to factor into our story.”
“Do we have a story?”
“God, yes. We’re writing it now. In fact, we’re just getting to the best part. And I have a feeling ... the best part’s going to last a while.”
I like that. I squeeze her hand.
“Almost home,” I murmur as we turn off the highway and wind our way toward Orchard Cove—but there’s a question in it, for sure.
I hope this place feels like home to her now, or will. Soon.
I hope she never wants to leave. The town or me.
When I look over at her, she’s smiling, gazing out the window at the passing farmlands as her hair blows in the wind.
So fucking beautiful.
And like some kind of melomaniac magic, “Sweet City Woman” starts playing.
Sierra laughs. “Youdidmake this playlist for me,” she accuses.
“It’s just songs that make me think of you,” I admit.
She gazes at me like she did that first night we met, when she was nicely drunk, let her guard down, and seemed to like what she saw. A lot.
I could get totally lost in that look, but train my eyes on the road.
“That’s a sweet gift, Mason. I can’t imagine a sweeter gift than a playlist, made by you.”
“How about a diamond ring?” I say dryly.
She laughs. “It’s pretty sweet, too.”
