Page 55 of Love, Take Two

"I think we should say hell yes," he grins. "But only if you're comfortable with it. This is your business, Vada. I don't want to mess anything up for you."

The concern in his voice makes me realize how much trust this requires from both of us. I'm letting him into my carefully built business, and he's trusting me with his professional reputation.

"I want to do this," I say, surprising myself with how certain I sound. "I want to build something with you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I confirm, already mentally planning how we'd approach the project. "Though we should probably establish some ground rules about mixing business and personal life."

"Probably," he agrees, though he's looking at me in a way that suggests ground rules might be challenging to maintain. "What did you have in mind?"

"Professional communication during work hours, separate roles and responsibilities, clear decision-making process," I list off, falling back into my event planning organization mode.

"Very thorough," Emory says with obvious amusement. "What about the no-kissing-during-client-meetings rule?"

"Is that going to be a problem for you?" I ask, trying to look serious.

"Might be," he admits, leaning closer. "You're very distracting when you're in professional mode."

"Emory," I start, but he's already kissing me, soft and sweet and completely destroying my ability to think about business protocols.

"Sorry," he says against my lips, not sounding sorry at all. "What were you saying about ground rules?"

"I was saying," I manage, though my brain is definitely not focused on business anymore, "that we should probably start with clear boundaries."

"Very clear boundaries," he agrees, his hands sliding under my shirt in a way that's the opposite of professional.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," I say, though I'm making no effort to stop him.

"We'll figure it out," he says, kissing his way down my neck. "Right now, I'm off the clock."

Later, as we're lying in bed with champagne glasses on the nightstand and apartment paperwork scattered on the floor, I catch myself thinking about how natural this feels. Not just the physical part, though that's definitely working out well, but the whole thing. Planning together, making decisions together, building something together.

"What are you thinking about?" Emory asks, running his fingers through my hair.

"Just that this feels right," I say honestly. "All of it. The apartment, the business collaboration, the domestic stuff. Even when it's scary, it feels right."

"Good scary or bad scary?"

"Good scary," I say without hesitation. "Like, jumping-off-a-cliff-but-knowing-you-can-fly scary."

"I like that kind of scary," he says, pulling me closer. "Especially when I'm jumping with you."

"Cheesy," I say, but I'm smiling as I say it.

"You love it," he replies with confidence that's not wrong.

As we drift off to sleep in my bed—soon to be our old bed in our old apartment—I think about how much my life has changed in just two weeks. From attending my ex-boyfriend's wedding as a single guest to planning a move with the man I'm pretty sure I want to marry.

Some changes happen slowly, and some happen all at once in a tropical paradise. The trick is being brave enough to see them through.

21

EMORY

I wake up to the smell of bacon and the sound of Vada singing off-key in the kitchen, and for a moment I just lie there processing how domestic this has become in less than a week. We've got keys to our new place, a moving truck reserved for the weekend, and our first joint client consultation scheduled for this afternoon.

The singing stops abruptly, followed by what sounds like creative swearing.

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