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We’d both agreed to go in halves on it, as much as I’d tried to push to just buy it myself, to not let her use Clay’s life insurance to put up half. I mean, I was planning on spending the rest of my life with this woman. There was no reason for her to have to spend her money on the house.
But she’d put her foot down about it.
And I understood her desire to have her name on it too.
So, the week of Thanksgiving, we’d closed on a three-bedroom townhouse with a finished lower level, in case we needed another bedroom sometime down the line.
Then we’d set to trying to get it furnished, since everything Cali had owned had been destroyed, and I didn’t have much of anything myself.
We still didn’t have anything in the extra bedrooms.
But we had fucking spectacular Christmas decorations.
“I still think the swing needs another pillow or two,” Cali declared as we moved over to sit down on the off-white corduroy sectional we’d picked out for the living room. Mostly because it had been in stock and deliverable the next day and we were sick of sitting on our dining chairs all the time.
“Sounds like we need to take a trip back to the store tomorrow,” I said, happy to indulge her obsession.
I didn’t understand it, but there was something about watching her nest that appealed to some primal part of me. Suddenly, I was having mental images of her making up nurseries, wrapping up toys, and sitting with me watching our kids opening stuff on Christmas morning.
I’d never imagined a future with kids before.
Now, though, it was on my mind a lot.
After, of course, getting Cali with a ring on her finger and walking toward me in a white dress.
“Expecting anyone?” I asked when the doorbell rang, making both of us sit up straighter.
We’d had a bunch of visitors since we got the place. Everyone wanted to stop by and drop off housewarming presents, or help us with little projects like painting or redoing the floors in the master since Cali was adamantly against all things wall-to-wall carpeting.
“No,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe Sage is dropping over,” she said, going to get to her feet.
“I’ll get it,” I said, grabbing her thigh.
“That overprotective thing is both frustrating and hot,” she told me, shooting me a saucy smile as I walked toward the front door, glancing out the peephole, but seeing no one.
Figuring it was maybe just a package, I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
And there it was.
The thing I’d been waiting on for months now.
With a fucking big red bow around its neck.
“Baby, it’s for you,” I called, holding the door partially closed, so she didn’t see it until she was close. “Give me that,” I said, taking the mug from her hands, then swinging the door open.
Then I watched as shock morphed to absolute joy as she looked at the little block-headed black pittie puppy waiting for her on the front step.
It looked like Andres Alcazar had finally dropped off our housewarming present.
The squeal that escaped Cali had the puppy wiggling and charging toward her, all kisses, as she got on the ground and wrapped it up.
“This is mine?” she asked, half laughing and half crying as she cuddled the puppy to her chest.
“Seems like it,” I said, nodding my chin toward a black SUV as it pulled slowly past the house, before driving off.
“Oh my god. We’re keeping it,” she said, shooting a stern look up at me. “I know this is where I’m supposed to ask if we can keep it. But I’m just gonna have to put my foot down about this. We’re keeping it… him,” she said as the puppy rolled onto its back for scratches, and let us know his gender at the same time.
“I would never deny you something that makes you this happy,” I said, shaking my head. “We need stuff now, though,” I said. “Food. Bowls. Toys. A bed.”
A light started in her eyes.
“That’s what the club has prospects for, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling. “We’re going to get you so many things for Christmas,” she told the puppy, rubbing his belly until his leg started tapping.
And, indeed, we did.
In fact, almost every gift under the tree belonged to the puppy we’d decided to name Bolter, which had been Clay’s nickname when he’d played football in high school.
“Oh, wait wait wait,” she called, rushing toward Bolter, and pulling the package out of his mouth. “That one’s for Daddy,” she said, and there was no explaining the way my heart melted at her calling me that. “Your son is really sorry about messing up your wrapping paper,” she said, coming up to sit next to me as she handed me the package.
“He’s been sorry about a lot of things this week,” I said as he violently shook one of the boxes his new toys had come in. “My boots. My belt. Your bra.”
