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Me: You told me about some of it, not nearly all.
Maisy: So you’re saying your bid paid for itself.
Me: Ha.
Charity: So, what’s he like? I’m dying! I’m so happy for you!
Me: …I think I’m in love.
What follows is a chorus of squeals and cheers in text form.
Maisy: Listen, you have to let me plan the wedding, even if you have it at Jesse J Ranch.
Me: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. He hasn’t said the L word yet. Neither have I.
Charity: What are you waiting for? It’s been, what, 16 hours?
Me: Says the mail-order bride who fell in love on her wedding night. Not everyone moves at your pace.
Charity: It’s going to happen; I can feel it. You two look good together.
Me: He’s a foot taller than me with gray hair and muscles. I’m five foot three and squishy with mouse-brown hair. Tell me how that makes sense, visually.
Serena: Shut up, you’re beautiful.
Me: Thanks. Jesse thinks so too. He said it twice last night. Oh, and once this morning.
Maisy: You hang on tight to that one.
Me: I’ll try.
Me: Can you guys keep a secret?
Serena: Are we gonna say no if we can’t?
Me: Okay. Well. He hasn’t had sex in ten years. More than ten, probably more like twelve, whenever his first marriage started to fall apart. I’m his first anything since the divorce.
Serena: Oh my god. Are you sure you want that pressure?
Maisy: Ooh, he is like a man freed from prison. Gird your loins and such before he puts a baby in you.
Charity: Can you imagine their babies? Oh my godddd…
Jesse’s footsteps on the stairs are so quiet that he catches me putting my phone down.
“Texting your friends to come to your rescue?”
He carries a bed tray and sets it down in the middle of the blankets.
“Yeah, I told them to please come pick me up because this insanely sexy man is making me stay here and enjoy his fabulous sprawling log castle in the mountains.”
I come to my knees to accept a kiss as he laughs at my smart mouth. Aw, he brushed his teeth.
I rub my hands together as I examine the plates and bowls loaded with awesome-smelling breakfast foods, plus coffee and exotic-looking juices. Jesse clicks on the TV.
“Sorry, I have to watchMeet the Presson Sunday. It’s a sickness.”
“Sure is. Too many smart people talking all at once, and I haven’t even had my coffee,” I say, gnawing on an orange slice.
