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“Santa.” Tate leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear. “He heard you made the nice list this year.”

He trailed kisses down my neck.

Oh, this was nice.

Very nice.

I tilted my head to the side, giving Tate better access and myself a very poor chance of remembering how words worked.

“Tate, I only got you a few things,” I stuttered out. His warm lips against my skin were potent.

“You gave me everything,” he whispered in my ear.

“Almost,” I breathed.

Tate sat up, a question in his beautiful eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Give me a second.” I grinned before rifling through the beautifully wrapped packages—no doubt Veronica’s handiwork—until I found the one I was looking for.

I’d been saving the gift until tomorrow, but now seemed like the right time to give it to him.

“Open this.” I handed him the box wrapped in pink Santa paper. It was all I could find in the house.

Tate smiled at the cutesy wrapping before tearing into it like a child on Christmas morning.

He lifted the lid of the box and pulled out the decorative metal bowl.

His brows formed a V. “Uh . . . it’s a bowl.”

He was trying very hard not to sound disappointed.

“It’s for the console table,” I said. “For your keys and wallet.”

His eyes snapped to mine.

I swallowed, suddenly aware that my heart was attempting to leave my body. “I think every husband should have one.”

For one second, Tate didn’t move.

Then the bowl slipped from his hand onto the floor, and he stared at me as if I’d just handed him the moon.

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“I suppose I am.” I smiled, even though my eyes were already filling. “What do you say?”

“Uh, hell yeah.” His voice cracked. “When?”

“I was thinking as soon as possible.”

His hand curled into the fabric at my waist, and he pulled me to him until our lips were a breath apart.

“I heart you, Rory.”

“I heart you, Tate. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

His lips met mine. Not crashed. Met. Like he was coming home and taking his time walking through the door.