I wonder if he’d still want forever with me if he met my mother, or if he’d realize her personality is a pre-existing condition no one can stabilize.
I offer him a coy, sidelong smile. “I don't know, Uzo. Forever is a long time. My schedule is pretty packed so I’ll have to see if I can fit you in.”
He chuckles, “Hurry up, Ms. Mysterious. I’m a very impatient man when it comes to ‘forever’ with you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper, leaning my head against his shoulder. “You forget I’ve met your parents, but you have yet to read mine. What if—”
He leans over and kisses me, capturing my words and my heart in one decisive move. “With you, there are no questions. No second-guesses. No contingencies. I want you forever. No matter what.”
I can’t help but grin, wide, and say, “Okay.”
His expression shifts, the playfulness dropping away into something more tactical. “Now that it’s settled, would you consider doing that profile Eros Beaumont asked about? Tatum is breathing down my neck. She thinks it’s the only way to pivot the narrative and show the world that what we have isn't just some PR fluke or a lucky deflection.”
I look at him, thinking about the way he just stood up to his mother for me, and I almost feel safe saying yes. Almost.
“I have a condition,” I say, my voice firming up.
He raises a brow, his focus entirely on me. “Anything.”
“If we officially outlast the SightUnseen season—if we make it past the finale without our vitals flatlining or the world imploding—I’ll do the profile. But,” I hold up a finger, “that means I get a real wedding. I want the full traditional Nigerian ceremony and the white wedding.”
He raises a brow, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I see Chioma has already been in your ear.”
I grin sheepishly. “She made the dancing and the clothes sound so fun! If we're going to be a spectacle, we might as well do it right.”
He smiles, reaching over to squeeze my hand, his thumb grazing my knuckles in a way that feels like a seal on a contract. “Game on.”
***
An hour later, we’re settled into the oversized pods of first class. I’ve traded the lace and gold for charcoal yoga pants and a tank top, my body aching in that good, exhausted way.
“How long is the flight?” Luca asks as the cabin lights dim for takeoff.
“Just a couple of hours,” I murmur, reaching for the plush throw blanket I always bring because the recycled air turns me into an icicle.
“Perfect,” he says.
Before I can tuck the blanket around my legs, he’s doing it for me, draping it over my lap like a shield. But his hands don't stop at the edges. I gasp as I feel his palm slide flat against the flare of my hip, his fingers disappearing beneath the waistband of my yoga pants.
“Luca, what are you doing?” I hiss, glancing toward the galley where the flight attendant is prepping the cart.
“I’ll have a vodka soda, please,” he says, his voice conversational, even as his fingers find the lace of my underwear and move past it.
I choke on my own breath. “Why are you telling me your drink order?”
“Because when the attendant comes by, you’re going to give her my order.” One finger goes in.
“Ah! Shit!” I whisper.
“And yours, too. Make sure you tell her your drink as well.”
My legs twitch, a spark of electricity shooting straight to my core as he begins to work me, literally, from the inside out.. “Seriously. You want me to…oh shit…while your hand is... while you’re doing …fuck.” Two fingers.
“Yes. Repeat my drink order to me again?”
“You asshole,” I whisper, my head falling back against the headrest as he finds the spot that makes my thoughts go hazy.
“You love it,” he snaps back. “But that’s not it. That’s not what I ordered, my love.”
