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I scowl at him, but he just saunters over to me and pats me on the shoulder. “Relax, man. Try to enjoy it. It won’t kill you to have fun for a few hours.”
“It just might,” I grunt in response, instantly brightening when Dahlia returns. Her parents are behind her,ooh-ing andaah-ing over the cottage. I’ve met their parents before—hell I grew up eating at their table and sleeping over at their house in Harry’s room—but somehow I feel like I’m meeting them for the first time all over again. Because this time I’m not just Dylan, Harry’s best friend, I’m also Dylan, Dahlia’s boyfriend.
They know, of course—Harry ratted us out immediately—but I still brace for her dad to take a swing at me like Harry did. Her parents are in their sixties, but they don’t look like it, keeping fit and active. I don’t doubt her dad would manage a good punch if he wanted.
Thankfully, I don’t have to deal with that again.
Instead, her mother, Kira, shouts my name and rushes towards me, grabbing me in a bear hug. The woman is as small as Dahlia, but somehow I feel like the one being crushed as she squeezes me and I awkwardly pat her back.
“Oh, Dylan. It’s so good to see you! My God, look at you!”
I smile, hoping it doesn’t look as tense as I feel.
“Mrs. Jenkins,” I greet as she releases me and her husband extends his hand for me to shake. “Mr. Jenkins. It’s lovely to see you.”
“Kira and Paul, none of this formal nonsense! We’ve known you since you were this tall.” Kira hovers her hand at knee height .“Though it’s certainly hard to imagine you that small now!”
Dahlia grins up at me, weaving between her parents to come to my side. I wrap an arm around her waist, keeping her close. I’d throw a damn party every day if it was what she wanted, even if the idea makes me want to go into hibernation like an actual bear.
“I’m sure Harry’s given you enough grief,” Mr. Jenkins pipes up, nodding to where Dahlia is leaning into my side. “So I’ll just say this. Of all the men Dahlia could find to spend her life with, I’m glad it’s you. You’re a good man, Dylan, and we trust you to be good to her.”
Relief makes me feel a little dizzy. It’s ridiculous. Even if they protested, I wouldn’t let Dahlia go because I never care what anyone thinks. Except this is Dahlia’s family and they’re important to her, and I know having their approval means a lot.
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her,” I tell him honestly, nodding at him.
He smiles widely. “Right then, give us the tour!”
* * *
Three hours later,I still have Dahlia plastered to my side. The cottage is full of her friends and family from back home as well as a few faces I recognize from the village.
Dahlia makes friends so easily it seems like magic to me, making more connections in her first month here than I have in ten years. Everyone compliments us on the cottage, and Dahlia is glowing with happiness.
“I was thinking,” she says as she turns to me. We’re in the kitchen, my back to the wall and her acting like a shield between me and the other people. “I loved doing this. The house. With you.”
I reach forward, tucking a piece of her hair back behind her ear. “So did I.”
Her smile widens. “I want to keep doing it. With new houses. Taking the old abandoned ones and giving them new life, so they can be someone’s home again.
“And what about this house? You want to sell it?”
“No…I want it to be ours,” Dahlia says a little nervously as if she’s actually unsure of my answer. As if I’d ever say no to her.
“My home is wherever you are,” I tell her truthfully, dragging her closer and ducking to kiss her, tasting her sweet drink on her lips.
“So that’s a yes?” she checks, her hand on my chest as she stares up at me.
“Yes, petal.”
“Yay!” She cheers, and I watch her dance around and talk to her friends and fill the house with laughter and love, my chest feeling warm and my heart so full it could burst.
I never realized how empty my life was until she barrelled into it.
Finally, in the early hours, the house empties as everyone heads back to their homes and hotels. Dahlia stands at the door waving after them until they’re all driving or walking away out of sight, then she closes it and sighs happily.
The second the door is locked, I grab her, tugging her into the living room. She squeals as I lift her up, sitting her on the edge of the dining table.
“What are you doing?” she asks as I cup her knees with my hands and push, parting her legs. I step between them, running my hands higher to push her skirt up, revealing more of her soft, warm skin.
