“We’re both getting married.”
His expression softened.
“You want to choose mine?”
“Yes.”
“Then choose it.”
“Nothing dramatic.”
“You say that while wearing blue enamel.”
“Subtle blue.”
“Of course.”
I moved closer until our thighs touched.
“I don’t want to wait years.”
“We won’t.”
“I need enough time not to turn planning into a neurological event.”
“We have time.”
“But not forever.”
“No.”
His hand covered mine, ring beneath his palm.
“One season at a time,” he said.
“Winter?”
“Engaged.”
“Spring?”
“Planning.”
“Summer?”
“Maybe married.”
My heart jumped.
“Maybe.”
“Enough.”
Marlowe rose from the rug and pushed his head between our knees.
Reid laughed and scratched behind his ears.
“You approve?”
