Page 239 of The Wright Man

The air smelled like warm vanilla and sugar, thanks to the overpriced dessert truck Angie had spotted with wide eyes and a pout that didn't stand a damn chance against me... Not that she had to try that hard.

The second she started swaying toward it like her shoes had a mind of their own, I was already pulling out my wallet.

Now we were walking the waterfront path, her hand looped through the crook of my arm, her head tipping toward my shoulder every now and then when she giggled or mumbled something through a mouthful of strawberry shortcake, her smile damn near brighter than the string lights lining the walkway.

And even though it was too sweet for my taste, and probably twice what it should've cost, I'd buy it again just to see her like this—happy, lit up, lips sticky with cream and syrup, eyes glazed from the wine we had with dinner. She was touchy when she drank. Not in a sloppy way. More like everything in her, all the emotion she kept behind those big brown eyes, got loosened and softened by a good Cabernet.

She fed me a spoonful of her shortcake, and I handed over the last bite of my overpriced banana pudding. Wordless, natural, like we'd done it a thousand times. This part of loving her had always come easy.

We ended up on a bench across from a little playground, the kind with those creaky swings and a plastic slide that smelled like hot rubber in the sun. It was closed for the night, but I caught her watching it, eyes distant.

"Maybe we'll bring our kids here," she said suddenly, nudging my side with her elbow. "Driving us crazy with my chaos and your smartass attitude."

I huffed out a laugh, caught off guard by the way my heart stuttered. "Our kids, huh?"

She didn't look at me at first, just kept watching the playground like she could already see them there. "Don't you want that?" she asked, soft, but not unsure.

I studied her for a second, taking in the curve of her profile, the way the moonlight kissed her cheekbones and the streetlamp made her skin glow bronze and gold.

"I want you," I said finally. "Above all else. I want this life with you. If it's just us, I'm good. You and me... and maybe a dog. German Shepherd or something."

She made a face. "A German Shepherd? Those are cop dogs. No thanks. We're getting a Yorkie."

I nearly choked. "A Yorkie? Angel, that ain't shit but a rat with good branding."

She gasped like I slapped her imaginary dog. "Don't come for my hypothetical fur baby! Her name is Prada, and she's sensitive."

"Prada," I repeated dryly, dragging my hand over my face. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it," she sang, nudging me again.

I did. Every wild, chaotic, soft-edged bit of her.

The smile faded a little from her lips, though, and something deeper settled in her eyes. She turned toward me, the dessert long forgotten now in her lap. "I really did think I was done with the idea," she said quietly. "After Maleeka... and everything Gavin put me through. I thought that part of me was just gone. Like he snuffed it out."

I stayed quiet, giving her room.

"But... a lot changes when a woman is loved properly." Her voice cracked, just a little, and she gave me that look—the one that always made my chest squeeze, like she was trying to say everything she couldn't yet put into words.

And I got it. I did.

Because I loved her. Fully, every day. More now than ever, now that she was really mine. And yeah, she hadn't said it back yet. Not in words. But I felt it—in her kiss, in her touch, in the way she always remembered the things no one else noticed. I didn't need her to say it. I could wait. Just like I'd wait to have sex with her, because I knew she was holding out until she could give herself fully, without fear or old ghosts whispering in her ear.

She wanted to be free when she said it.

"I dunno," she said, shrugging like she could brush off the emotion. "Maybe it's just the sweets and wine talking."

I reached for her hand, linked our fingers. "Nah," I said. "It's you talking. And I'm listening."

Her eyes flicked to mine.

"I'd build a family with you," I told her. "Whatever way that looks like. Whether we adopt, use a surrogate, or do it the old-fashioned way—hell, even if it's just you and me and a Yorkie named Prada—I'm in."

She blinked fast, eyes misting, her lips twitching like she didn't know whether to smile or cry. She bit her bottom lip and looked away, shaking her head.

"Take me home, Leek," she whispered. Her voice was soft and misty but steady. "I think I'm ready for bed."

"Tired?" I asked with a smirk, even though I knew damn well that wasn't what she meant.