Page 66 of Designing Love
“Well, then I’ll leave you to it. Try not to cause too much gossip, kids.” She winks exaggeratedly at me. “Sophia, good luck handling this one. He’s a handful.”
“Believe me, I’m finding that out.” I laugh.
Claire waves cheerfully, continuing down the sidewalk. Ethan sighs, shaking his head fondly. “You see what I deal with?”
“Poor you,” I tease gently, squeezing his hand again.
He chuckles, guiding me toward the bustling farmer’s market. The lively atmosphere, colorful stalls filled with fresh produce, baked goods, and local crafts immediately energize us.
As we wander, Ethan points out familiar faces, introducing me to various vendors and friends. We stop frequently, sampling homemade jams, debating apple varieties, and laughing over kitschy souvenirs.
Eventually, we pause near a stall selling fresh bouquets. Ethan eyes them thoughtfully, glancing toward me shyly.
“What’s your favorite?”
I smile warmly, touched. “Sunflowers.”
He buys a bouquet without hesitation, presenting them with an exaggerated flourish. “For you, my lady.”
I laugh, accepting them with playful reverence. “Such a gentleman.”
His eyes soften, hand cupping my cheek gently. “Chivalry’s my baseline — but you get the deluxe package.”
My breath catches. My heart pounds happily. He leans in softly, dropping a tender kiss on my lips — brief but full of promise.
As we walk back toward the street, our fingers intertwined again, I realize how fully, completely happy I am here with him.
“So,” Ethan murmurs gently, breaking the comfortable silence. “What’s next?”
I glance sideways, eyes sparkling. “I’m not entirely sure. But I know I want to figure it out — with you.”
His smile brightens, warmth filling his gaze. “Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”
Hand in hand, flowers tucked gently under my arm, we stroll back toward Ethan’s truck. Each step feels easy and natural — like I’m exactly where I was always meant to be.
29
EPILOGUE: DESIGNED TO LAST
Sophia
Itake a step back, my arms crossed loosely as I tilt my head thoughtfully, savoring how spring sunlight filters gently through the Miller House windows. Outside, daffodils and tulips burst vibrantly from window boxes, bright reminders that we’ve emerged from a long winter into a season of joyful beginnings.
It’s finally done.
Well, mostly. I glance sideways at Ethan, who’s stubbornly wrestling with a curtain rod. His expression is pure determination, tongue poking slightly out of his mouth as he twists and nudges the rod, which rebelliously refuses to cooperate.
“You know,” I say teasingly, suppressing a smile, “it’s still not too late to hire someone.”
Ethan shoots me a dramatically wounded look as though I’ve questioned his honor. “Sophia, have some faith. I’m a professional. Sort of.”
The rod slips suddenly from his grasp, hitting the windowsill with an echoing clang. Ethan mutters something colorful under his breath, quickly casting me a sheepish glance.
I stifle my laughter, hands raised innocently. “You were saying, Mr. Professional?”
He chuckles softly, brushing hair out of his eyes. “Just give me ten more minutes and an online tutorial. Expert craftsmanship takes time.”
“Ah, of course. Yesterday it was just two minutes and confidence.”
