His hands find my waist automatically, his thumbs brushing the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up. “I’m going to regret this.”
“Probably.” I’m grinning now, knowing I’ve won.
“You’re going to make us stop at every tourist trap.” His voice carries a fond resignation.
“Definitely. World’s largest ball of twine, here we come.”
He lifts one brow, considering his fate. “We’re going to fight about the music.”
“Constantly. But the make-up sessions in sketchy motel rooms will be worth it.” I trace the collar of his shirt, feeling his pulse quicken.
He groans, but his hands tighten on my hips. “Fine. But I’m driving.”
“Control freak.”
“Chaos agent.” He shoots back without hesitation.
“Your chaos agent,” I correct, watching his face do that thing—that soft, wondering expression that makes me forget why I ever thought moving across the country for a man I’ve known for only a month was crazy. That look that says he still can’t quite believe this is happening, that I chose him, that we chose each other.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “Mine.”
Muffin whines from her exile on the cold floor, pawing at Dean’s leg with increasing desperation.
“Ours,” I amend, reaching down to scratch her ears. “Right, baby? We’re all yours. One big, dysfunctional family.”
“She’s not our baby.” He says it automatically, but without conviction.
“She’s absolutely our baby. Look at her little face.” I gesture at Muffin, who’s making her most pathetic expression.
“We’re not those people.” But I can see him wavering, looking at the dog with entirely too much affection.
“We’re absolutely those people.” I kiss his jaw, feeling the slight scratch of five o’clock shadow. “We’re going to be those insufferable people who have professional photos taken with their dog. Matching Christmas sweaters. The whole nine yards. Deal with it, partner.”
He freezes. Complete stillness, as if I’ve said something in a foreign language.
“About that.”
I pull back to see his face properly, tension creeping into my shoulders. “You’re taking it, right? Dean. It’s partner. It’s what you’ve worked for. It’s what you’ve sacrificed everything for.”
“Is it?” His voice is careful, searching.
“Isn’t it?” I counter, studying his expression.
He’s quiet for a long moment, his fingers tracing absent patterns on my hip—the same spot he always touches when he’s thinking, grounding himself in the reality of us. “I don’t know anymore. Everything I thought I wanted… it all made sense before.”
“Before what?” Though I think I already know.
“You.” The word lands between us, heavy with meaning. “Before someone made me realize there’s more to life than billable hours and corner offices. Before I understood that success might look different than I planned.”
Oh.
My heart is doing that thing where it tries to crawl out of my chest and throw itself at him.
“Dean—”
“I’m taking it,” he says quickly, as if he needs to get the words out before he loses his nerve. “Probably. Most likely. I have three weeks to decide.” He meets my eyes, and there’s a vulnerability there that would have sent him running a month ago. “Is that okay? That I don’t know? That I might want… different things now?”
I think about the Dean I met three weeks ago—so sure of everything, so rigidly in control, emotions locked down tighter than Fort Knox, with a five-year plan laminated and color-coded. Now, he’s on the floor with a dog that sheds on his Armani, planning a road trip in a questionable vehicle, admitting he doesn’t have all the answers.
