Page 138 of Finding Noah

“No,” I said, shaking my head, holding her tighter. “Nobody else did. You found me.”

“And I never would've stopped looking,” she whispered, a promise.

“I know,” I replied. “And that's why I need to make you my wife.”

“To make sure someone's always out there to find you if you get lost?” she teased.

“Exactly,” I said with a chuckle, climbing to my feet and taking the box from her hand.

I took the ring, then her hand, and slipped it onto her finger.

“Hey! I didn't say yes yet,” she said, giggling as I grabbed her by the waist and threw her over my shoulder.

She kicked her feet in the air, sending those old, nasty slippers flying.

“Go ahead and say yes,” I replied on the way to our bedroom. “You got time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time for me to rip these clothes off of you,” I said, tossing her onto our bed and pulling my shirt over my head in one fluid motion.

She scrambled up toward our pillows, sitting with her back against the headboard, her knees bent, a coy look in her eyes.

It took no time at all to drop my jeans and kick off my boots, to crawl over the mattress and grab her ankles, pulling her toward me until she lay flat on her back with her legs spread apart, wide enough to accommodate the breadth of my hips.

I lay over her and tugged the elastic from her hair to cause a waterfall of curls to fall around her smiling, rosy-cheeked face.

She wrapped her arms around my neck, lost herself in my eyes, and whispered, “Yes, Noah. It was always going to be yes.”

***

AGE TWENTY-FOUR

Mayor Connie Fischer led the way through the old house, pointing out various points of interest. Arched doorways, crown molding, pocket doors—and, believe me, I was interested in all of them. It was exactly what we wanted and then some.

But while Connie pointed out the bits of architectural character, original to when the house had first been built in the late 1800s, I was making a mental note of all the things wrong with the old place.

Water damage on the bathroom ceiling.

Warped hardwood floors on the first floor.

Ancient appliances that would need replacing before they could be used.

The dollar amount grew higher and higher, piling up on top of the low listing price. Looking at the place now, I understood why it was so low—a steal, honestly—but there was so much to do just to make it livable, never mind turning it into the home of our dreams.

“There are three bedrooms upstairs,” Connie said, gesturing toward the staircase.

I glanced at the wooden risers, noticing right away a couple of splintered boards.

Add that to the list, I thought with a grumbled sigh.

“If you want to head up and check them out, I’ll wait down here and make a phone call.”

Meghan wrapped her arm around mine, thanked the mayor, and steered the way toward the narrow, steep staircase.

“Like climbing a mountain,” I muttered to her back. “Watch your step, Meg. These stairs are freaking me out.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” she insisted, and I knew she was rolling her eyes at me. “My dad and grandparents’ live in old houses like this. I’m used to it.”