Page 25 of Stuffing My Obsession
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For calling you names. For—”
“Don’t.” I cut her off gently. “I deserved it. Every bit of it.”
We stand there, our hands tangled, silence stretching thick between us. And then, I tug her gently toward me, dropping my forehead to hers.
“I love you, Paris,” I murmur quietly, staring deeply into her eyes. “I’m in love with you.”
“I love you too,” she whispers, her lips spreading in a smile that reflects brightly in her eyes.
I press her body closer to mine, cup the back of her neck, and lower my mouth to hers, kissing her slow and soft. She melts against me, her lips parting, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer. I slide my tongue into her mouth, and she moans, the sound ripping straight through me.
I growl against her lips, sliding one hand down to grip her hip, the other tangling in her hair. She arches into me, her body saying everything her words already confessed.
“God, Paris…” I murmur against her mouth. “You’re mine.”
“Yours,” she murmurs breathlessly.
Heat coils tight in my gut, and I’m two seconds from carrying her over to the living room couch when the sound of someone clearing their throat jerks us apart.
Paris’s mom is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded, eyes sparkling with mischief. Right behind her is her husband, trying and failing not to scowl, his ears turning red at the tip.
“Harold,” Susan sing-songs, “looks like the pie isn’t the only thing heating up in here.”
Paris gasps, covering her face with both hands. “Mom!”
I straighten slowly, keeping one arm around Paris’s waist because I’m not letting go of her, not now. Her dad glares at me like he’s weighing the pros and cons of murder.
I meet his stare without flinching, and before I can talk myself out of it, I say, calm and clear, “Sir, ma’am—I intend to make Paris my wife.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a blade. Paris peeks at me from behind her hands, her whole face crimson.
Her mom’s smile breaks first, wide and wicked. “Well, that’s…direct.”
Her dad just groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God help me.”
Paris groans too, burying her face against my chest, her shoulders shaking with laughter. I wrap my arms around her, my heart swelling with a joy that seems almost impossible.
I never thought I was worthy of such grace.
Epilogue
Two Years Later
Paris
The fire crackles and spits, filling the room with the faint smell of smoke and pine. My mom’s laughter rings from the couch, colliding with Dad’s booming voice as they argue—again, about whether the stuffing should have sage or not. Myles sits next to me in the old leather loveseat, a glass of whiskey balanced easily in his hand, watching them with that faint smirk he always gets when he’s amused but won’t admit it.
God, he looks so good here in the home we’ve built together. Broad shoulders stretching his shirt, jaw rough with evening stubble, one scar catching the firelight like a secret only I know the story to. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t have to. His presence is loud all on its own.
Mom clinks her glass, calling everyone to attention. “Alright. It’s that time again.” Even though this is the first Thanksgiving Myles and I are hosting in our home, it still feels right that Mom should be the one to kick off our tradition.
Dad groans, pretending to be annoyed, but he takes the lead, as usual. Something about good health and his garden that refusesto grow tomatoes. Mom rolls her eyes and adds her piece, something sentimental that includes a fond memory of Tonia.
I meet my husband’s eyes and smile softly. My sister will always be with us, in a way, but over the past few years I’ve started to finally find some peace. Just like Myles’s nightmares are eased by my presence in our bed, he’s also helped me process my grief about my sister’s death in a way that I hadn’t thought possible before. He says I’m the light in his darkness, but he brightens my life too.
Then it’s Myles’s turn.
He doesn’t even hesitate. Just turns his head, pins me with those glacier-blue eyes. “I’m thankful for my wife,” he says simply, his eyes never leaving mine.
