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"Welcome home, baby." He puts a moving box down into the closet for me. "Make yourself at home. Everything that’s mine is yours."
"I’m gonna hold you to that, especially when it comes to your clothes. I bet your cashmere sweaters are super cozy."
"You're welcome to steal my sweaters, babe. I'm more worried about you stealing all the cookies."
"You wouldn’t dare keep cookies away from a pregnant woman." I widen my eyes at him playfully.
He smiles and pulls me close, his hand traveling to my still-flat stomach. He leans in to kiss my forehead. "You know I'd never do that."
He takes my hand leading me out of the closet. He stops for a second and kisses me again. This time, it’s a slow and passionate kiss. He pushes me away and looks into my eyes. "Time for dinner." He pulls back, taking one of my hands in his. "I know you've gotta be hungry by now."
"Yes, please feed this preggo woman. Before I start to get hangry." I laugh and follow him to the dining room. When we walk in, I'm caught off guard.
"Hunter, what's all of this for?"
The room is lit with candles, and a table set for two with elegant silverware and crystal glasses. "You went all out, didn't you?"
"I may have mentioned it was a special occasion." He gives me a sly grin and pulls out the chair for me.
"Special occasion?" I question.
"Your first night in your new home..."
Our personal chef, Charles, enters carrying a silver tray. He places it on the table, lifting the cover to reveal a plate of seared salmon on a bed of pureed cauliflower.
"Bon appétit." He gives us a nod before exiting the room.
There are two wine glasses, already poured sitting in front of us.
I push mine back.
"Don't worry. It's sparkling grape juice for you."
I laugh as I pull the glass back. "Well, in that case, let's toast."
"To us," he proposes.
"To us," I repeat, our glasses clinking.
Throughout dinner, Hunter seems nervous, his fingers tapping anxiously on the table. He's been fidgety all evening and I can't help but wonder what's up.
I raise an eyebrow at him. "You're more jittery than a cat in a room full of mice, Hunter. What's up?" I ask, placing my hand over his, the constant tapping ceasing beneath my touch.
"Is something bothering you?"
"Just some work stress. It's nothing, really," he dismisses my inquiry.
I am not convinced, but I let it go. After all, he has a billion-dollar empire to run. That's stressful enough.
As we finish our meal, Hunter stands and walks over to the vintage record player in the corner of the room. He places a vinyl on the turntable and the soft strains of Etta James' ‘At Last’ fill the room. He extends his hand to me.
"May I have this dance?"
He pulls me to my feet and leads me into a slow dance, his hands around my waist, my head resting on his chest. The scent of his cologne still makes me melt into him. I can't help it.
He takes a deep breath, as if to gather his courage, then drops to one knee.
Holy shit.
