I toss my head back and laugh. In all the time we’ve spent together—and apart—we’ve never exchanged those ten precious digits.
“To think we could’ve been texting this whole time,” I say.
“No.” His mouth pulls into a frown. “I prefer you in person.”
I run my hand down the T-shirt stretched over his fit torso. “Much better in person.”
I fist that shirt and tug, but I don’t have to encourage him much. A second later, I’m savoring the press of his lips to my neck. He enters inappropriate PDA territory when he blazes a trail to my earlobe, but I don’t stop him.
“Where are you staying tonight?” I ask when his lips leave my skin.
“Grand Lark is at capacity. But I have a Jeep.” He shrugs as easy as you please. “I’ll park under the stars. Curl up in a sleeping bag. Though having someone there to keep me warm would be better.”
My smile is all the “yes” he needs. I can tell when he grins back at me.
“Barrett’s moving out this week.”
“So you have a spare room,” I tease.
“Sorry. It’s a one-bedroom. I have a couch, or you can take the left side of the bed.”
The cold shock recedes and is replaced by warmth as my heart beats at twice its normal speed. Dax easily reads the terror on my face.
“Too fast?” He tucks my hair behind my ear. Still calm. Still collected. I have to take a few breaths to become both of those things, but I manage.
“It should be too fast.” I turn over the idea of moving in with him. Moving to Ohio for him. “But it feels right.”
Palm on my cheek, he says, “Let me try something else out and see if that feels as right as the rest of it.” He pulls in a breath. “I love you, Becca.”
I blink. Stunned. Thrilled.
Amazed.
“Damn. That felt really fucking right.” He lets out a laugh that might be an exhale of relief.
“Maybe I should try it.” I put my hand over his. He loses his smile and focuses on me intently, his eyes heated, his body stock-still. “I love you too.”
Silence hangs in the air between us.
“How’d that feel?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my bottom lip.
“Really right.”
He kisses me again. Softer. Slower. We are so going to need a room. Or the back of the Jeep. Whatever. I’m not picky.
He loves me. Dax Vaughn is in love with me and I love him. It’s unbelievable, but I trust my gut. If I were any happier, I’d be levitating.
“One condition,” I murmur against his mouth.
I make out the slightest trace of doubt in the concerned bend of his eyebrows. I put him out of his misery quickly.
“I’m more of a right-side-of-the-bed kind of girl.”
His eyes narrow as if he’s trying to decide if he should scold me or make out with me. I know how to tip the scales in my favor. I push up to my toes and whisper in his ear, “I’m really good at blow jobs and pancakes.”
His hand drops to the waistband of my jeans and he grips the material, holding me hip to hip against every firm inch of him.
“Check!” he shouts. Then to me, “Can you take the rest of the day off?”
“No,” Tad answers as he delivers food to a nearby table. “You’re fired, Becca. With a smile, he adds, “Get the hell out of here.”
He extends a hand to Dax, who shakes it.
“Hurt her, I’ll kill you,” Tad says.
Dax tugs Tad slightly closer and promises, “Same to you.”
They nod after their cavemanlike exchange, and then Dax slings his backpack over his shoulder.
“I have to collect a few things from the office,” I tell him, and in a way we’re reenacting the first night we met. The first night of the rest of our lives, I think, like a sap. “Meet you out front?”
“Okay, Princess.”
I watch him walk out of the restaurant, admiring his perfect ass and the strong, capable way he holds himself. And then I think about how he’s in love with me. How he showed up and asked me not to go to New York because he worried that my choosing him was second best.
What he didn’t know was that I love him too. I don’t care what side of the bed I sleep on, as long as Dax Vaughn is on the other side of it.
Damn. This swelling, swirling, too-full feeling in the center of my chest feels really good. Feels really right.
I think I might have found my destiny.
Finally.
Epilogue
THREE MONTHS LATER
Becca
North Street Bar is packed with diners, and not one of them is paying a single penny to eat or drink here tonight. It’s a practice run for the full menu and for the newly appointed waitstaff, bartenders, and kitchen guys.
In a lot of ways, North Street is my and Dax’s baby. Our firstborn. Sure, he and Barrett may have done most of the manual labor, but Dax and I were creating something new. Something that was us.
“I can’t tell if I’m nervous or excited,” I say, standing over a table of four with my hand resting on my middle. “How can you tell if they’re butterflies or bats in your stomach?”
“Bec.” Grace, the bawdy redhead who runs McGreevy’s, raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got this.”
“Yeah,” Davis agrees, looping an arm around his fiancée’s neck and kissing her cheek. “You learned from the best: Gracie.”
Grace and Davis are an odd couple at first blush, but since I’ve gotten to know her—and him too, since he rarely leaves her side—I’ve learned they’re perfect for each other.
The other couple at the table is equally doomed to be together forever, but where Grace and Davis seem like an odd couple, Jackie and Vince are a matched set. His dark good looks and her girl-next-door charm are darling together. They’re full-color-catalog perfect. Plus, they’re really freaking cool.
“You’ll do great,” Jackie tells me. I’ve been on a few girls’ nights out with her and Grace. Jackie’s fun, but don’t give her liquor. She’s just this side of crazy if you get a shot of tequila in her. “Just picture everyone in their underwear.”
“Especially me,” Vince says, his blue eyes sparkling. He oozes charm and good humor. Jackie never stood a chance.
“I’m not wearing underwear,” Dax says, approaching the table.
Grace slaps her hands over her eyes and Jackie covers her ears.
“Which one of you is ‘speak no evil’?” I poll the guys. “We have the other two covered.”
“Ready to do this, Princess?” Dax asks. Jackie and Grace coo over the nickname. He frowns down at them. “Shut up.”
“I think it’s sweet.” Grace purses her lips and makes a few kissy noises, and everyone at the table laughs.
“Gotta go,” I tell them. “Wish me luck.”
“Luck!” my new friends shout.
Dax links his hand in mine and leads me to the stage at the front of the restaurant. We decided North Street needed an open-mic night. The stage added a month to the construction, but we didn’t care. We wanted it to be right. Now it is.