Page 116 of Proposal Play

Like she fucking belongs.

It’s killing me.

And exciting me.

And fucking me up.

Dragging a hand through my hair, like it’ll sort out my wild thoughts, I get out of bed and follow her to the bathroom. She’s already looping her hair into a messy bun on top of her head, then stepping into the shower.

She turns it on, and yep—she owns this place.

And, really, me.

I dim the lights, step inside, and shower with my best friend for the first time. I grab some of her body wash, and rub it onto her stomach, her breasts, her ass, then I get down on my knees and clean her thighs, looking up at her.

“Thanks for making a mess of me. And thanks for cleaning me up,” she says, in a tone I haven’t heard from her before.

It’s soft, maybe just shy of romantic. I want to hear that tone again. Mostly, I want to earn it. I stand and drop a kiss to her forehead. “Anytime,” I say, and that barely covers the scope of things.

But for now, it’ll have to do.

40

AFTER ALL THIS TIME

Asher

This won’t be our first night together in bed. It’ll be our third as husband and wife. But we’ve shared beds before this too. Like the one in the ice hotel. We shared a room on that trip—that was the point. To freeze together.

Then, there were our sleeping bags, lined up next to each other in the tree tent.

Another time when we went on a tour of amusement parks up and down the California Coast, we shared a room in the All Aboard Inn, a hotel with suites built from old train cars. We pretended we were rich Europeans solving a murder mystery.

But this time is differentfor me. Since it’s the first time I’ll get in bed thinking too hard about the future rather than the present.

It’s all I can think about even after we forage the fridge for leftovers, even after we return to the bedroom, even after we slip under the fresh sheets and covers.

I meet her gaze once more, taking in her still bee-stung lips, the flush on her cheeks, her playful eyes. Then, those two books on the nightstand. They’re just books, but they’re also the signs of Maeve. They’re positioned a little haphazardly, like she does live here. Not like she was trying to make them neat as a guest. But like she’s comfortable in my home.

Is this even real? I run a hand down her arm like I need confirmation. Yep, real. She’s here, and she’s not leaving, and she’s not laying down rules, and she’s got my ring on her finger.

She’s my wife for the rest of the season.

It’s a wild, addictive thought, and my mind won’t stop thinking it, over and over. It’s barely ten. I’m not at all tired. I’m not even sure she is, so I say, “Do you want to watch something?”

“As long as it’s not a drama.”

“Do I look like I’d play a drama?”

“Nope,” she says with a pop of her lips, then runs a hand up my chest, playing with the hair on my pecs. It’s a familiar gesture, one I hope she turns into a habit. But her brow furrows. “Asher?”

That tone. The question in her voice. I tense. “Yeah?”

“I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to be friends. If we had sex,” she says, vulnerable, looking up at me. “But this is nice. I think we can. And I’m so glad.”

Has there ever been a more double-edged sword in my existence? Her words should be good. But they’re a reminder of how far apart we are. And what we stand to lose if this goes sideways. Still, I say from the heart, “Me too.”

Because I don’t want to lose her.Ever.