Chapter Twenty-Eight

Cliff

After her parents have left, I struggle. Is it too soon to ask? She’s mad at me right now, so I know that I need to give her some breathing room. But that meeting couldn’t have gone any better at all.

And I’ve got other news for her.

I find her in the kitchen, stewing at the table. She’s chewing her lip and glaring at me, but I walk right up and sit across from her. “I know who turned you in,” I say, and she stares at me, all her anger gone.

“Who?” she asks, breathless as she studies my face as if looking for clues.

Chris. I found out from Zac after he booked the bastard for stealing someone’s credit card and using it to shop after they’d stayed at the shitty motel he manages.

“Remember that first motel you stayed at?” I ask, and her head drops.

“Oh, no,” she whispers. “How did he find out I’d gone with you?” she asks, her voice miserable.

“That was my fault,” I say, and she looks up at me in shock. “I’m sorry,” I say, but she’s shaking her head no like she doesn’t believe it. “I called and asked for you. Not by name, but as that blonde. And he remembered that. And when he figured out who you were, he put two and two together.” I curse myself for being so stupid. I’d made such a glaring error. And she’d paid the price for it.

“You couldn’t have known,” she says, and I shrug.

“I screwed up and I’m sorry.” But she’s moving in front of me, pulling her chair with her as she takes my face in her hands and looks me deep in the eyes.

“You’re perfect,” she whispers, before placing her lips on mine.

I feel an internal tug. Not just my body begging for hers, but like my very soul is searching for hers. And I know that my mom was right. She’s the one. This is the right time.

I mean, not right this second. I need to plan something. Something romantic. Something beautiful. I’m not just going to throw the ring at her face and demand she marry me. Although, that might work. I don’t know.

She breaks the gentle kiss and whispers against my lips. “You promised me you’d go fishing…”

And I realize I love her. More than I ever thought possible. She’s mine. The one that’s just right for me. My mother is a wise woman, and I trust her. And I trust my gut.

“I really want fish for dinner,” she says, and I groan.

“I can think of something I want for dinner,” I say, nibbling on her lips.

“Seriously,” she says with a grin as she pulls back out of reach, “I’m hungry. Now let’s go.”

I give in and follow her out on the dock. And we sit and fish, laugh and joke, talk about everything and nothing and catch fish. It’s the perfect ending to a wonderful day. And I decide I want more endings like this. I want to wake up beside her every morning and fall asleep beside her every night.

And the idea comes to me. I know how to propose to her.

When we’ve caught enough fish, we take our catch inside and I get ready to clean them. At the sink beside me, she begins to clean some. Side by side we gut the fish, and she tells me she wants to make them because this is something she’s good at cooking.

I tell her she can make these, and then we’ll make them my way next and decide which way we like them better.

When they’re clean, I sit down and watch her move around the kitchen, cooking and making salad to go with the fish. “I think you pretended to suck at cooking all that time so I’d cook,” I tease, and she gives me a look and grin that tells me that I’m only slightly wrong.

“Maybe,” she says slyly, and I laugh at her.

When the food is ready, I set the table and we sit down to eat the baked fish. It falls right off the bones and flakes beautifully and tastes amazing. She tears hers apart and spreads it over her salad, and I snag a bite as she grins at me.

“I’ll stab you,” she says, her fork poised and ready as I pop the bite in my mouth.

“Worth it,” I say around the mouthful and begin to mix mine like she’s doing. While we eat, we talk and exchange memories. She talks about my dad and how both our parents would get along amazingly.

And when we’re done eating, we move into the bedroom. After we’ve brushed our teeth and gotten ready for bed, we sit and talk some more, laughing and joking. Until I’ve had enough. I lean in and kiss her, and she responds, her whole body moving with me as she shoves me back and climbs up on me, straddling my hips.

With her on top of me, I just enjoy as she explores me, her hands lifting my shirt and tracing the lean lines of my body as her gaze follows. She finds a scar, and her eyes meet mine, questioning.

“Sometimes my job is dangerous,” I say and relay the story. I’d been younger then, and stupid.

She seems to understand, and I smile as she kisses the scar like she can heal it with her lips. She proceeds to kiss me here and there, where she finds scars, over tight muscles, wherever she pleases.

Her fingers ease the soreness in me, and I relax, loving her gentle caresses. And when she kisses my lips, I’m ready for her. Ready to make love to her. Because I’ve fucked her, sure. But I want to love her, savor her, enjoy her. And I want to do it slowly.

And every part of her will feel my lips and tongue by the time the night is over. Because I’m not going to be done with her until the sun comes up.

No, scratch that. I’m not going to be done with her ever.