Page 104 of Dial L for Lawyer
"Move in with me," I say without thinking.
She freezes. "What?"
"Move in with me. Officially. Not just because of reporters or the case. Because I want to wake up with you every morning and come home to you every night."
"Caleb—"
"I know it's fast. I know we're in the middle of chaos. But Michaela's right—why wait when you know?"
"Because she's seven and believes in fairy tales?"
"Because I'm thirty-eight and I believe in you."
She stares at me for a long moment. "Can I think about it?"
"Take all the time you need." I kiss her forehead.
She bites her lip and looks away. For a while, neither of us says anything. The muted city light filters through the windows, painting us in soft, uncertain blue. I can sense an entire hurricane brewing behind her silence.
"You don't have to decide right now," I say, gentling my voice, though the intensity of how much I want this bleeds through every word.
She tries to deflect with humor, but her bravado is thin tonight. "Yeah, well. Maybe I just don't want to move in with a guy before I've seen exactly how bad his beer farts really are," she says, and the line is so perfectly her that I almost laugh with relief.
"That's fair."
She laughs, but it's shaky, vulnerable. I cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. "Hey. I meant what I said. Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
"You say that now, but?—"
"No buts. I've waited months to have you in my life. I can wait as long as you need to feel ready." I lean my forehead against hers. "Besides, you already have a key. That's basically halfway moved in already."
"That's not how it works."
"Sure it is. Key, toothbrush, drawer full of clothes. Next I'll clear half the closet—it's a natural progression."
She's smiling now, real and warm. "Presumptuous."
"Optimistic." I brush my lips against hers, barely a kiss. "I'm very optimistic about us."
"Yeah?" Her voice is soft, wondering.
"Hell yeah."
Her mouth finds mine properly this time, soft at first, then more insistent. We sink into the couch, her hands sliding under my shirt, mine tangled in her hair.
"We shouldn't," she murmurs against my lips. "Michaela's right down the hall."
"She sleeps like the dead." I trail kisses down her neck. "David says she could sleep through a tornado."
"Still..." But she's arching into me, her protests half-hearted at best.
I shift us so she's beneath me on the couch, and she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. The kiss turns desperate, all the stress and fear of the last few days channeling into this—into us, into the heat between us that never seems to fade.
"God, Caleb," she gasps when I drag my teeth along her pulse.
"Shh," I tease. "You'll wake the tiny lawyer."
She bites my shoulder in retaliation, and I have to muffle my groan against her hair. Her hands are everywhere—my chest, my back, tugging at my belt?—
