Page 52 of Uxpectedly Ever After

Yeah, I was braced for that reaction—this is Clover, after all. She’s not the type to squeal and leap into my arms. She’s going to tear this apart, piece by piece, before she accepts it might be a good idea. Honestly, it’s one of the things I love about her—that sharp brain that never lets her take the easy route.

"Just look at it before you tear me a new one," I say, catching her hand and leading her to the door. "Please?"

She goes quiet, those blue eyes drilling into mine like she's trying to dismantle me piece by piece. Christ, I'd let her if she wanted to. Finally, she nods once. "Fine. Show me."

The key slides home with a satisfying click, and I push the door open. The entryway opens up with hardwood floors that gleam in the afternoon light pouring through the windows. The place is practically glowing, like it's been waiting for her to walk through the door.

"It’s four bedrooms, two baths," I rattle off as she steps inside. "Built over a century ago but fully renovated five years back—new roof, plumbing, electrical. The foundation's reinforced for earthquakes, so it's not going anywhere."

I sound like a desperate realtor, but I can’t help it. I need her to know I didn't just throw money at the first house I saw. That I checked every damn detail because this is where I want us to raise our kids. Where I want to come home to her after every shift.

Clover glides through the living room, her fingers brushing the built-ins around the old brick fireplace. Her face shifts, that initial shock melting into something softer—something that makes my chest tighten with hope.

"The kitchen's back here," I say, setting a hand on the small of her back to guide her. "I figured you'd want to see that first."

The minute I first walked in, I knew this kitchen was perfect for her: big and modern while still rocking that vintage feel—white subway tile, blue-gray cabinets, brass pulls, and a deep farmhouse sink under a window overlooking the backyard.

“There’s a garden window for all your plant babies,” I add, pointing it out. “Manhattan and Mint Julep will like that morning sun, but the moody ones—Old Fashioned and the rest—can sit on the shaded shelf.”

She spins toward me, eyes wide. For a second, I think I’ve messed up big-time.

“You remember which ones need indirect light?” she asks, voice catching.

“’Course I do,” I shrug, trying to play it cool even though my heart’s pounding. “I pay attention to the things that matter to you.”

She huffs a laugh, but it sounds suspiciously close to a sob. Her gaze skims over the window ledge, and I can only imagine what’s going through her head. When she turns back to me, there’s something in her eyes I haven’t seen before—some soft mix of gratitude and wonder that makes my chest tighten.

I clear my throat, shifting gears because I’m not sure I can handle her tears right now—especially not if they’re happy ones. “Anyway,” I say, leading her deeper into the kitchen, my hand at the small of her back. “Check this out.”

I lead her farther into the kitchen, running a hand over the counters. “There’s tons of space for when you’re stress-baking.” I open the pantry door to reveal the spice rack I installed lastnight. “Check it out—ready to be alphabetized just how you like it even if it makes zero fucking sense to organize them that way.”

She lets out this half-laugh, half-sob sound that twists my insides. “Banks…”

"Come on. There's more." I tug her gently toward the stairs, showing off the updated bathroom with hex tiles and a vintage clawfoot tub I immediately pictured her in, surrounded by bubbles.

The best part is it’s big enough to fit us both.

I push open the door to the smallest bedroom. "This would be your office. Until you get your bar up and running.”

The space is bare except for the desk I had delivered a few days ago—a midcentury piece I found at an estate sale. I spent three nights refinishing it while Clover was working. My hands still smell like wood polish. I positioned it right under the window with the best view of the backyard.

"I know you need space that's all yours," I tell her, watching her face. "Somewhere to work or study without me hovering or the baby crying."

She runs her fingers over the desktop, and even though she’s silent, I can see all the little tells that say she’s feeling something big.

“This next one’s the nursery,” I say, leading her across the hall. “Morning sun comes right in, and it’s close to the master so we’ll hear the baby. And it’s the perfect place for Bellini.”

The walls are painted a pale green—neutral, but still cozy. I’ve already set up the crib I spent weeks researching, and above it hangs a mobile with clouds and lightning bolts and tiny raindrops. When the light catches them, they sparkle like bits of magic.

It’s more than a house—it’s the foundation of the life I want with her.

“The mobile felt right,” I say, breaking the silence when she just stands there. “I know we haven’t talked about a theme yet, but it reminded me of that night. The storm.”

The night everything changed—the night we made this baby and I stopped trying to bury my feelings for Clover James.

She lifts a hand to cover her mouth, tears building in her eyes. Aw, hell. This is way too much, too fast. I swore I wouldn’t push her, and here I am, practically bulldozing her into a future she hasn’t even agreed to.

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” I blurt, taking a step back. “The house is mine regardless—I already gave up my apartment. But it only becomes ours if you want it to be.”

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