Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I cover her hand with mine where it rests against my jaw. “I love you and I’m going to keep saying it until it stops feeling like I almost didn’t get to say it.”
Tessa nuzzles her cheek against my chest and I rest my chin on top of her head. We stand there in my living room, two people who have found their way back to each other and are taking a moment to feel the solid ground under their feet.
Outside the window Seattle goes about its business, indifferent as ever.
But inside it’s just us. Just her and me, finally, without reservation.
CHAPTER 28
Tessa
The bedroom is the big project to tackle today. Boxes stacked three high along the wall, a duffel bag that didn’t make it past the doorway, his shoes already taking up residence on my side of the closet in a manner I’ve decided I’m not going to mention for at least another week. The dresser is covered with his watch, keys, the worn leather wallet I bought him years ago for his birthday, and it touches me that he still has it. All of it taking up permanent residence in my residence.
Well, our residence.
That word still does make my pulse jump.
Permanent.
It’s what we easily fell into and it crosses my mind more than once—a gentle chastising my conscience throws at me—that I could have had this five years ago and a lot of time has been wasted.
I’m standing beside the bed breaking down an empty box while Cole moves between the closet and the duffel with systematic efficiency. He’s exceptionally hot today in a gray Henley with the sleeves pushed up over his muscled forearms and I keep losing track of what I’m doing because I can’t stop looking at him.
“We should get a dog,” I say.
He doesn’t peer up from the duffel. “Okay.”
I wait. “That’s it? Just okay?”
“Did you want a debate?”
“No, but… what kind of dog?” I ask.
He glances over his shoulder. “A big one.”
“I was thinking small,” I reply primly. “Fluffy like a Havanese or a Cavalier King Charles.”
Cole turns around fully and looks at me with an expression that is very patient and very clear. “No,” he says.
“You haven’t even—”
“A Cavalier King Charles,” he says, “is not a dog. It’s a throw pillow that needs vaccinations.”
“They’re sweet.”
“They’re decorative.” He turns back to the duffel. “We’re getting a real dog.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Define real.”
“One that could survive outdoors for more than forty minutes.”
“I don’t need it to survive outdoors.” I laugh. “I need it to sit in my lap while I’m writing.”
“Get a cat.”
“I don’t want a cat, I want a dog. A small fluffy one that I can carry in a bag if I need to.”
Cole puts down what he’s holding and turns around again. “You are not carrying a dog in a bag.”
“People do it all the time.”
“Not in this house.”
“This is technically my house.”
He gives me a look—one that means he finds me genuinely entertaining and is doing only moderate work concealing it. “German shepherd,” he says.
“Absolutely not.”
“Think about it… they’re loyal, intelligent, athletic—”
“They’re enormous,” I say dismissively. “They can’t fit on my lap, and besides… I have you if I want loyal, intelligent and athletic.”
He ignores my jab. “Labs are good.”
“Labs chew everything.”
“You train them not to.”
“Have you even met yourself?” I challenge. “You can’t even train yourself to put your socks in a hamper.”
He covers his heart with his hand, looking grievously pained. “That’s a low blow.”
“Golden retriever,” I offer, because I’m willing to negotiate.
He considers this. “Go on.”
“It’s fluffy and retrieves. It’s a compromise candidate.”
“It’s a dog that cries when you leave the room.”
“So do I,” I say with a grin, “and you seem fine with that.”
Cole’s eyes warm, his smile softening from banter to adoration. It’s an expression he’s been wearing all week like he’s still surprised that we’re here, that this is real, that all of it worked out. He gets that look and I lose my train of thought completely every time. I almost capitulate on the German shepherd.
“Fine,” he says. “Golden retriever is a top candidate.”
He goes back to unpacking and I start on a new box, cutting the tape, digging through the layer of bubble wrap protecting what turns out to be a set of coffee mugs even though the box is clearly labeled Bedroom.
I hold one up. “We need to have a conversation about cabinet real estate.”
“Bernese mountain dog,” he says, ignoring the cup in my hand.
“Now you’re just changing the subject,” I chide.
He grins at me. “They’re great dogs. Calm, gentle—”
“Also the size of a love seat.”
“You said you wanted fluffy.”
“I said small and fluffy.”
“Fine. How about a Pomeranian?” he says.
I look up, skepticism twisting my expression. “Seriously?”
“I’m showing range.”
“You just went from Bernese mountain dog to Pomeranian. There’s a lot of disconnect between those two breeds.”