“There’s nothing wrong with my sauce packets,” I informed him, somewhat embarrassed he’d so easily pegged my food insecurities. “I’m keeping them.”
“You’re not.”
He was so bossy. “Why?”
“When I move in, I’m buying bottles,” he informed me flatly. “The jumbo-sized ones from Costco that take an age to run out. And, when they do, I’ll buy you more.”
I blinked. Hard. “But—”
“Not done,” he cut me off. “I’m also bringing my fridge from the loft because yours is old and inefficient and doesn’t hold half as much shit. While we’re on the subject of your kitchen, I plan to renovate it as soon as I’m done with the library. And I plan to actuallycookin said kitchen, because I’m not living off takeout and wine for the rest of my life.”
“You…” I was struggling to process everything he was saying. “You want to cook in my kitchen?”
“Gwen. Are you getting this yet?” His lips twitched as he gazed at me. “I want itall, baby. I want to put a ring on your finger. I want to marry you. Not tomorrow, but soon, so brace yourself.”
I sucked in another sharp breath.
He kept going. “I want vacations at the beach, you in a bikini, fucking in the sand, sleeping under the stars. I want to teach you to ski in the winters and sail in the summers.”
“Skiing is dangerous.”
His lips twitched again. “It’s also fun as hell.”
“So?”
“So, everything worthwhile carries some risk. But I’ll be right there, step by step, from the bunny slope to the black diamonds.”
“Black diamonds?!”
“Babe. Do you honestly think I’d let you put yourself in any real danger?”
My eyes narrowed. “You just have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
He grinned —arrogant!— but when the amusement faded from his expression, it was replaced by something breathtakingly gentle. “Gwen, you have to know… I want more than just vacations and condiment bottles.”
I did know that. He’d told me more than once, spelled it out in plain English, as was his way. Still, suddenly, I was trying very hard not to cry. “Um…”
“I want to fix up this house, to make it ours,” he carried on. “I want to fill up these rooms with kids, yours and mine. I want to watch you grow old. Gray hair on our heads, a pair of rocking chairs in the back yard. Cranky and wrinkled and unrecognizable and still together. Still in love.”
I was losing the battle against tears. “Graham…”
“I want to live by your side, then die in your arms,” he whispered. “And when we finally leave this earth, I want matching funeral plots.”
Okay, now I was definitely crying. The tears streamed down my face, a free-flowing torrent. He pulled me up against his chest and allowed me to weep into the hollow of his neck. When I’d finally regained a semblance of control over my emotions, I swallowed hard and breathed one word.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” His arms tightened. “You’re agreeing? You’re not going to fight me on this?”
“I’m agreeing,” I whispered, voice thick. “But if we must get matching funeral plots, I want mine to say ‘I’m with stupid.’”
He laughed, the sound so full of joy it rocked his whole body.
I craned my neck back to look up into his face. Our gazes tangled instantly, his such a piercing green it took my breath away.
“I love you too, you know,” I informed him quietly. “I’ve loved you since I was ten.”
His eyes flared.