She'd been asleep.
Curled against me.
One hand resting over my heart like she'd put it there for safekeeping.
Sunlight spilling through the windows.
And she'd sighed in her sleep and snuggled closer.
That was it.
That was the moment.
The exact second I realized I was fucked.
Because instead of wondering when she'd leave—I found myself wondering what kind of ring she'd like.
Jesus. Christ.
I actually sat there thinking about engagement rings.
Me.
The guy who once broke up with a woman because she bought matching Christmas pajamas.
And now?
Now I know exactly how many bedrooms I'd want in a house.
Because Mary needs space for her books—God can that woman read.
And I’m not talking about biographies or histories—that woman’s collection of romance could start fires, but I’ll get in to that another time.
Mary deserves her own library.
And an oversized bathroom with one of those giant tubs women like for some reason.
And there should probably be a playroom someday.
Whoa.
Playroom?
Kids?
I rub a hand down my face.
Holy shit.
I'm becoming my brother.
Worse.
I'm becoming my mother.
Because I can already hear Mom asking when she's getting grandchildren.
And the terrifying part?