Page 150 of Book and Ladder
“Make an honest woman of her already!” she scolds.
“What do I say to that?” he asks me with an amused smile.
“I don’t even know.”
“One day!” he shouts over to our nosy but adorable neighbor. Then he turns and looks down at me and says, “One day.”
“It would be crazy if it were today,” I say.
“Not so crazy,” he says softly, popping the door and holding it open for me.
The chill wind follows us in and I shiver despite the warmth of his living room.
Patrick’s home is the mirror of mine, only it feels like him—masculine, tidy, but with unexpected touches. And lots of books.
He switches on the kitchen light and warms a pan of water and milk on the stove.
“Grab a blanket and get comfortable on the couch,” he tells me.
“I’m spoiling you by always doing what you say,” I tease, grabbing my favorite fleece blanket and curling up on the couch.
Patrick comes through the kitchen doorway holding two mugs. The scent of cocoa fills the room, bringing with itmemories of so many winter nights in my childhood with Gran and my parents.
“I could get used to this,” I murmur, half to him, half to myself.
“I hope you do.”
He takes a seat next to me, handing me my cup of cocoa. I wrap my fingers around it and he wraps his arm around me.
“I wish we were at the cabin,” he says in a voice that sounds as if he’s already there.
“Mmmm,” I hum my agreement, blowing a breath across my cocoa to cool it.
“We’d light the fire and sit up til you fell asleep on my chest telling me stories about your life and dreaming aloud about our future together.”
“When did you turn into such a romantic?” I ask him, tipping my head up to meet his eyes.
“Maybe when I fell for you. Dad says I always was sentimental when it came to you.”
“I bet he means that as a high compliment,” I tease.
“The highest.” His chuckle rumbles beneath my cheek which has found its way to resting right over Patrick’s heart.
“I’ve always loved the Waterford tree lighting,” I tell him, my voice drowsy and sated.
“Maybe by next Christmas we’ll be decorating another tree together,” he says.
“Are you proposing to me, O’Connell?” I tip my head up and meet his gaze. “Mrs. Hellman will be thrilled.”
“Not yet.” His eyes rove across my face. “There are still some important matters to decide.”
He wags his brows and grins, that dimple I love popping.
I reach over and set my mug on the coffee table and then I trace his dimple with my pointer finger.
“Matters to decide, such as?” I ask.
“Whether I’ll have to take your last name,” he says in allseriousness, but his eyes are dancing. “I can’t imagine you ever wanting to be an O’Connell.”
