"You doubted Tyler's ornament."
"I still doubt it."
"It adds range."
"It adds Tyler."
"That's sometimes the same thing."
Zane laughed quietly against my hair.
I leaned back into him and covered his fingers with mine. They were warm, rough from work even in winter, and his left thumb brushed over the inside of my wrist in a slow, absent stroke. The little motion sent a shiver up my arm.
"Cold?" he asked.
"No."
His mouth touched the side of my neck. "Good."
"Zane."
"I'm listening."
"You are absolutely not listening."
"I'm listening with my hands."
I laughed, and his arms tightened. For a minute, we just stood there in the Christmas-lit quiet, breathing together.
Then Zane stepped away.
I turned, missing the heat of him immediately. "Where are you going?"
"To get something."
"If it's another box of lights, I'm staging a revolt."
"It's not lights."
He walked toward the short hallway, and I watched him go because I was a woman with eyes and a long history of poor judgment that had, somehow, led to excellent outcomes. He disappeared into the bedroom. A drawer opened, then closed.
My pulse kicked.
I didn't know what he was getting. I only knew he came back with his fist closed around something small, and the look on his face stole the air from my lungs.
He stopped in front of me. He didn't kneel yet. He didn't make a show of it. He looked serious, and gruff, and so beautiful in the Christmas lights that my breath went thin.
"I had a plan," he said.
My eyes stung immediately. "Of course you did."
"It was a good plan."
"I'm sure it involved measurements."
"It involved the porch after the wreath was hung."
"That does sound like you."
