Page 158 of You're The One
“Are you offering to take me to HomeGoods?” she cuts in, amusement thick in her voice.
“Or… Target. World Market?—”
She snorts. “Big spender over here.”
“Oh, oh—IKEA!”
That earns a full laugh. She tucks closer, her forehead pressing into my chest as the sound shakes through both of us. “Have you ever been?”
“Never.” I don’t bother hiding the wonder in my voice. “You’ll be my first. We’ll fill up one of those giant blue bags with things we don’t need, test out every couch and buy none, and most importantly, eat Swedish meatballs.”
“Sounds very romantic,” she teases.
“I’ll work on myYou’re The Onelevel dates. Only the best for my girl.” I kiss her knuckles, holding on. “But for now, how about IKEA?”
“I’d love nothing more.”
EPILOGUE
6 WEEKS LATER
“Hey,you’re on the wrong side,la mia fiamma.”
I turn to find Dom leaning against the fence that splits our yard from Ryan’s. Still getting used to sayingour, but it might be my new favorite.
Right up there with the way he brings me coffee every morning. His barista skills have come a long way since that clumsy beach attempt.
And his hugs. He doesn’t half-ass them. He commits, wrapping me up until I’m boneless. I never imagined the day I’d crave them, but here we are.
Okay, so I’ve got a lot of favorites now.
At the top of the list ishim.
“What’re you doing over there?” he calls, and I head toward him. I skip the gate, meeting him on the other side of the black posts. As soon as I’m close enough, he cups my face. His hands are warm despite the October chill, and when he kisses me, I hum—add his mouth to the list. I’ve kissed it nearly every day since we’ve been home and still haven’t gotten tired of it.
And that’s what this feels like. Whatwefeel like. Home.
Turns out I know my style after all, though it’s not as straightforward as minimalist or cottagecore. It’s throw pillows from IKEA—several trips’ worth. The new couch where I’ve straddled Dom’s lap and fallen asleep on his shoulder. The kitchen gadgets he keeps stocking because he knows how much I love baking in the chef-level space.
Some people measure love by years or milestones; mine’s by how many times you can survive, even enjoy, an overcrowded home store. We haven’t hit the limit yet.
“Hi,” I murmur against his mouth. “Do I get to know what you were up to this morning yet?”
He’d tossed and turned most of the night, which wasn’t like him. I figured a two a.m. round of sex might finally knock him out until noon on his only day off, but no such luck. He was gone before sunrise, pressing a kiss to my lips and promising he’d be back with a surprise.
That crooked smile, the one where the left side lifts higher than the right, spreads across his face. “Yep. It’s time.”
Before I can react, he grabs my waist and lifts me over the fence. A squeal escapes, but I cut it short, hoping I haven’t woken any neighbors trying to sleep late on a Sunday. As soon as my feet hit the ground, he pulls me in, one hand cradling the back of my skull, my face pressed against the soft fabric of his hoodie. He only lets go to lace our fingers together.
“Come with me.” He leads me toward the garage, where the tailgate of his Range Rover is open, filled with flats of flowers. I trail my hand over them, only to realize they’re all the same.
Hellebores.
I still have the first one he gave me—okay, the second—dried and tucked into a ziplock bag in my dresser.
“One wasn’t enough? You figured you’d need a field of them to get rid of me?” I tease.
“I’m never getting rid of you, baby.” His eyes soften as he watches me. “I thought we could plant them in the beds. They’re kind of our flower now, right?”
