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“Jesus Christ. We eat at this table,” Rhys warns.
“Rhys certainly does,” Micky mutters under her breath, and something tells me there’s an inside joke there.
Her bedroom is quiet, the kind of quiet that’s familiar and calming. Thanksgiving was great, but this is better. She’s half curled into me, warm and soft—her breathing slows like she’s on the edge of drifting off.
My eyes trace over her features as I reflect on the day. The food, the jokes, the way she made me feel like I belonged. They all did, even Rhys. I didn’t realize how much it would get to me—how much I wanted it.
Sliding my fingers along her smooth jaw, I tilt her face toward mine. She blinks up at me with half-lidded eyes and I take her in, really look at her.
“You okay?” she murmurs, voice scratchy with sleep.
I nod, brushing my thumbs over her cheeks. I’ve been so focused on her for months—watching, protecting . . . removing obstacles . . . that I didn’t even see how much she was doing the same for me. The way she listens and trusts and encourages.
I press my forehead to hers, exhaling slowly and borrowing that quiet peace she gives so freely. “I love you,” I mutter.
Her sleepy smile is adorable. “I love you too.”
She rests her head on my chest and my thumb traces her cheekbone. Not only has she let me in, she’s been building a place for me there. She even laid out a welcome mat.
I seriously need to stop letting Casper plot date nights unsupervised. Wear something that can get dirty could be anything. Dirty from what, paintball? Off-road mud racing? Commercial HVAC ducts before blowing up a skyrise?
I slip into the passenger seat of the Cutlass and immediately start looking around for clues, but there are no black ski masks or paintball guns to be found.
“Duchess.”
“Casper,” I answer, buckling myself in. “You’re really not going to tell me?”
He looks calm . . . too calm.
“You’ll see.”
“Last time you said that, we ended up trespassing on a rooftop.”
He grins, keeping his eyes focused on the side mirror before driving away from the curb. “And you loved it.”
That’s true, I did. But we could have gotten in trouble. “Are we committing a felony?”
“Not tonight.”
My brow furrows. “That’s not the same as a no.”
“Felonies are only for special occasions.”
I give a disapproving head shake while smiling.
We drive for a while, long enough for my imagination to spiral into increasingly more hazardous scenarios. Whatever it is, I’ll probably end up doing it anyway—that’s the most pathetic part. When he pulls over and we slow to a stop, I straighten my spine and scan the area for whatever daring activity he has planned.
He points out my window and I furrow my brow at the sign. That can’t be right . . .
“We’re going there?” I take in the colorful storefront with bright letters reading Paint-A-Mug. My head slowly turns back to him. “Are we robbing it?”
“No.”
“Arson?”
“What?” he chuckles. “No. We’re going to paint a fucking mug, you psycho.”
He gets out of the car and walks around the hood to open my door. I’m still confused. I get out and sure enough, we walk into the pottery shop.
