“Hi.”
“What is this?”
I have to wet my lips before the words come. “I wanted to do something nice for you. So it’s a date, for us.”
For one whole second, he doesn’t move. Then he crosses the foyer in three strides, catches me around the waist, and lifts me clean off the floor, swinging me in a full circle that punches a yelp out of me. I clutch at his shoulders, breathless and laughing. His face is buried against my throat, and I can feel his grin pressed into my skin.
“You did this,” he says, muffled and delighted. “You did this for us.”
“Put me down, you maniac. The dress—”
“You did this for me.”
“Yes.”
He sets me back on my feet, but his hands stay at my waist, his forehead dropping to mine. When I meet his eyes, they’ve gone tender enough to make my chest ache.
“You cooked,” he murmurs.
“I followed a recipe.”
“You cooked, Miranda.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I warn him.
He laughs, low and warm, his thumb tracing the line of my hip through the fabric. “Give me five minutes to clean up. I smell like a hockey rink.”
“Go. Hurry up.”
He goes, taking the stairs two at a time. The shower turns on overhead. I press my palms against the cold counter, breathing out slowly while my pulse rattles, refusing to settle. Two glasses of wine give my hands something to do while I wait. By the time the stairs creak again, he’s barefoot in dark jeans and a gray sweater, hair damp at the nape. The look on his face when he finds me standing at the head of the table is one I’ll be keeping for a while. He pulls out my chair before he sits.
“You’re really going to do this properly, aren’t you?” I mutter.
“Sit, fiancée.”
I sit, and he drops into the chair across from me to take my hand. His thumb brushes the ring he gave me. Then his eyes drop to my ears, his smile widening at the sight of the studs.
“You’re wearing them.”
His finger lifts to brush the side of one earring, and the small touch hums down my neck into my collarbone. Heat climbs my cheeks.
“Stop it,” I order.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever you’re doing with your face.”
He laughs again, then cups my jaw, his thumb settling against my cheekbone. “You look so pretty, Miranda.”
I duck my head. “Are you happy?”
His eyes go serious. “Sweetheart. Yes.”
“I’m trying,” I confess, looking at the candle flame instead of at him because looking at him directly right now is more than I can manage. “To meet you halfway. I know I’ve been hard about all of it. The money, the clothes, you doing things for me when I can never figure out what to do back. I just wanted to do something for once.”
His thumb tilts my chin up until I have to meet his eyes. “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he says quietly. “Always.”
He leans across the table to kiss me, slow and warm, his mouth lingering long enough that I forget there’s anything on the stove at all. When he pulls back, his amber eyes are bright.
