“Yeah.” He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses it. “But I could eat.”
I smile. I’ve eaten dinner and breakfast in front of this man, and it keeps getting easier. Especially when I’m starving like I am now. “Perfect.”
“Your pick,” he says when he opens the door to his truck. “But I’m buying.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
KAYLA
“You can’t wear that,” I say, not even looking up from the mirror.
I’m on my second coat of mascara, perched on the edge of the sink with my legs crisscrossed like a pretzel, hair clipped back, our bathroom door open. It’s not the biggest bathroom in the world, but the light is good, and the routine is better.
Sean strolls past the door in a white tank top I’ve never seen before, emblazoned with an airbrushed wolf howling at the moon.
It’s tight enough to show each and every one of his abs.
“Too much?”
“Way too much!” I laugh and look at him in the mirror, putting the mascara wand back in the tube. “We’re going to a church potluck. No way the ladies of Mullet Ridge will be able to focus on the Good Lord while looking at all those muscles.”
“These muscles?” He kisses his biceps, and I laugh.
I push his abs. “Stop! They’re obscene.”
He wraps his arms around me from behind, and we both look at each other in the mirror. His arms really are ridiculous.
“So you don’t think me wearing a tank top says ‘I’m approachable?’”
“No, it says ‘I lost a bet to Lucas Fischer.’”
“That obvious?” Then he kisses my head and lets go. “I’ll change. But only if you promise to wear something that shows off those legs.”
I bite my lip as he leaves the bathroom.
It’s been four weeks.
Four weeks of getting up at six in the morning for a run. Or of me going with him to the Mullet Ridge Ice Barn while he runs drills with the Blue Collars and I jog the arena stairs before collapsing with a book.
Four weeks of him coming to the stadium with me and picking out flooring samples and light fixtures for the renovations, pretending to care about sconces and stealing me away for lunch, instead.
Four weeks of cooking meals together and eating meals together.
Four weeks of me realizing it’s okay to take a bite that isn’t perfect, that it’s okay to spill. That talking with food in your mouth may not be polite in public but is more than okay with the people who matter most.
Four of the happiest weeks of my life.
Today marks our second church potluck as a married couple. Sean is back on deviled eggs duty, per Loretta’s instructions. The ones he brought to the last potluck were nothing special: Duke’s mayo, mustard, paprika (not even smoked paprika). And he used dill pickle relish instead of sweet relish, and no one batted an eye. The whole thing could have been bought at the PigglyWiggly, yet everyone gushed about how Sean’s the only one who knows how to make them right. Well, Sean and Serena.
“Miss Serena doesn’t mind sharing the spotlight,” Miss Loretta told us when she was giving out assignments.
“And what about me?” I asked. “I may not pipe hearts onto my food, but I can cook, you know.
Her smile made it very clear she didnotknow.
“We’ll give you some time to settle into being married,” Miss Loretta said.
“I’m settled. I’d like to contribute.”
