I drop to my knees in front of him and kiss him with everything I have.
We don’t make it upstairs. Not the first time.
The hard floor is unforgiving, but I don’t care. We shed layers between kisses, frantic and laughing and clumsy. When he presses into me, I think, absurdly, that this is the most romantic moment of my life, and it’s happening on a floor.
* * *
The next morning, we’re having breakfast at the round table by the window, already stoically dressed for work considering we didn’t get much sleep last night; not even after we moved from the floor to the bed. Every muscle in my body aches in the most satisfying way.
Liam looks sharp in his business suit. The only telltale sign of our nightly activities is the faint dark shades under his eyes.
“So.” He takes a sip of coffee. “How do you want to do the ceremony?”
“Yeah, mmm.” I snort. “I’m not very good at those.”
Liam’s smirk sharpens over the rim of his mug. “Should I be worried? Are you going to pull a runner on me again?”
“Never.” I set down my coffee and slide off my chair to settle into his lap. “You’re stuck with me.”
I loop my arms around his neck. He tilts his chin up, and I kiss him. He tastes of our dark roast and of all the future mornings we just promised each other.
When I pull back, I brush my nose against his. “We can’t stage a big vow renewal. Your mother still hasn’t forgiven me for botching the one she organized.”
He winces. “Fair point.”
“I’m not keen on stuffy parties anyway.” I shrug. “What about you? What do you want?”
Liam thinks for a second.
“Legally, we’re already married,” he says. “So it wouldn’t need to be anything official, just us. I’d like it to be you and me in the cave, exchanging vows.”
I picture us standing in the glow of lanterns, the walls glittering around us, the silence broken only by our promises. No guests. No string quartet. No suffocating dress or five-tier fondant cakes. Just us, like he said.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
He is perfect. Not flawless. He’s still cocky, stubborn, prone to driving too fast and working too late, and deflecting with sarcasm when he’s intimidated. But Liam is perfect for me. He would never impose a ceremony I didn’t want or a dress I didn’t choose. He knows me—the messy-haired, strawberry-toothpaste-using, flannel-pajama-wearing me—and he loves every chaotic inch.
I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
I lean in to kiss him again, but we’re interrupted by the doorbell ringing.
I pull back, frowning. “Who could be this early?”
Liam shrugs, but a spark flickers behind his eyes that I can’t interpret. “Go get the door and find out.”
I go with a frown. The confusion deepens as I spot, through the glass panel beside the door, a man. He’s broad-shouldered and dressed entirely in black—jacket, pants, boots. His head is shaved to a precise buzz cut, and his eyes are hidden behind dark wraparound shades despite the soft morning light.
I open the door and also notice the tattoos on his hands: flowers and letters.
The man extends a folded newspaper toward me without a word of greeting or an explanation.
“Um…” I take it. “Thank you?”
He nods once, and a smirk crosses his face. “Enjoy, Mrs. Rockwood.”
He turns and walks back to a black SUV idling in the driveway. The man pulls away, disappearing down the tree-lined road.
I stand in the doorway, holding the newspaper and processing the encounter.
