Page 179 of The Wild Card

“There’s the hickey.” She wipes her eyes, still grinning. “Oh my gosh. My mother drove three hours to surprise us and we were—” She gestures vaguely at the bedroom. “—and I didn’t even get to—”

She cuts herself off. Looks at me. Her expression shifts from amused to something darker, more focused.

“I didn’t finish,” she says.

“I’m aware.”

“That’s going to bother me all through brunch.”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Me too.”

She steps closer. Smooths her hands down the front of my shirt, and tips her chin up.

“The second they leave, Jensen.”

“The second.”

“That’s a promise.”

“You’re already wearing my promise.” I catch her hand, press my lips to her ring finger. “This one’s just a bonus.”

She exhales a laugh, soft and warm, and rises on her toes to kiss my jaw. Then she steps back, re-buttons the flannel—correctly this time—and runs her fingers through her hair.

“Okay. Brunch. I can handle brunch.” She finger combs her hair. “How do I look?”

Like the woman I’m going to marry. Like home. Like the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Like someone I was inside of three minutes ago, which is information I’m going to have to sit on while I eat quiche across from her father.

“Perfect,” I say, meaning it.

She narrows her eyes like she knows exactly what I’m not saying, and heads for the porch.

I take a breath. Then another. Then I pour two cups of coffee and follow her outside.

The porch is already a Linda Marshall production.

She’s dragged the chairs into a semicircle, laid out the casserole, alongside a box of muffins, a fruit salad in Tupperware, and what appears to be an entire loaf of banana bread wrapped in foil. Robert is sitting with his ankles crossed, coffee in hand, looking out at the trees like a man who has found peace and intends to keep it.

The morning is stupidly beautiful. October in Broken Bow—the trees turning amber and rust, the creek running somewhere below us, the air cool and clean and smelling like pine. I built this porch with my own hands last spring, sanded and stained every board, and I’ve never loved it more than right now, watching Emmie settle into the chair beside me and tuck her feet under herself.

“This is wonderful,” Linda announces, spreading her arms wide. “The air! The quiet! Robert, we should get a cabin.”

“We have a house, Linda.”

“A cabin is different. It’s rustic. It’s romantic.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Right, Crew?”

“It’s, uh. Yeah.” I take a very long sip of coffee.

Emmie reaches over and squeezes my knee. It’s grounding. We’re in this together.

I cover her hand with mine.

Linda dishes out the breakfast casserole and launches into a detailed account of the drive—the traffic on I-35, the gas station where Robert refused to stop, the audiobook she’s listening to about a woman who renovates a farmhouse and falls in love with the contractor.

“It reminded me of you two,” she says, beaming. “You’re both the contractor and the love interest, Crew. You’re very versatile.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” She takes a bite of muffin. “So. How’s wedding planning? Have you picked a date? A venue? Colors? I think sage green would be beautiful. Or dusty blue. Robert, don’t you think dusty blue?”