Page 131 of Robbin’ the Rich

“I didn’t do it for you.”

I cocked my head and waited for him to continue.

“I did it because it was the right thing to do. I knew they might not get the money anymore once my parents found out, and I just wanted to help them.”

I launched myself at him. He tried to catch me with open arms, but instead we fell to the floor in a puddle of limbs and laughter.

I was on my back as he propped himself up at my side looking over me. He brushed the messy hair from my forehead and dropped a sweet kiss to his lips. I cupped his cheek and ran my thumb over the stubble forming there.

“I love you.”

It was a simple fact. I loved him in a way I didn’t know how to fully articulate. Months ago that would have terrified me, but not anymore.

Micah is safe in the best way possible. Not only that but he is a good man. I never should have doubted him or myself.

We made love right there on my living room floor in the light of Project Undead.

It wasn’t a life everyone dreamed of… but for me, it was perfect.

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

Iwoke up on Christmas morning with Micah’s elbow in my ribs and his knee wedged between mine. Romance was alive and well.

I shoved at his arm without opening my eyes. “Move.”

He made a noise somewhere between a groan and a snore and tightened his hold on me instead.

“Micah.”

“Merry Christmas,” he said as he nuzzled my head.

“You’re crushing my spleen.”

“I don’t think your spleen is there.”

Of course he didn’t. Because he taught eight-grade science and apparently even half-conscious threats required peer review.

I opened one eye and found him smiling at me, blonde hair sticking up on one side and glasses nowhere to be found. He was warm and sleepy and unfairly adorable for someone currently cutting off circulation to half my body.

“You don't even know where I'm pointing.”

“I know where your spleen is though,” he said.

“Show-off.”

His smile widened before he leaned in and kissed me, slow and soft and tasting faintly of the peppermint toothpaste he'd used.

A year ago, Christmas morning had come after one of the worst nights of my life. This one started with Micah Nottingham trying to identify my internal organs.

By the time we made it out to the living room, coffee had become a necessity. Micah started it while I surveyed the tree we'd wedged into the only available corner of my apartment. Calling it my apartment was becoming increasingly ridiculous. Micah technically still paid rent on a place across town, but judging by the collection of sweaters draped over my furniture, the telescope beside the window, and the fact that I couldn't remember the last time he'd slept anywhere else, we weren't fooling anyone.

We'd talked about moving. Extensively, actually. We'd looked at houses. I'd made spreadsheets ranking potential homes by everything from property taxes to proximity to good takeout.

There had been one we'd both loved. A little blue house on a quiet street on the edge of town with a porch big enough for summer nights, an office for me, and a backyard Micah claimed had an unobstructed enough view of the southern sky to justify dragging his telescope outside at ungodly hours.

Someone else had gotten it. I'd been more disappointed than I'd admitted.