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But I wanted it to be a surprise. After the war with Vicki, and the way Sophie had somehow dismantled that bomb, she deserved a good surprise. That was why I had enlisted Beck's help—the woman had seemed far too happy to go behind Sophie’s back.
“Are you being serious? Like deadly serious?”
“As serious as a heart attack.”
She weaved her fingers through her hair, grabbing fistfuls at a time, and spun around on the spot, taking in the entire street before she dropped her arms down. “I’ve driven past this house a million times.”
“I know.”
“And every time, I’ve thought this is a dream house, the kind of house you’d move into and live forever . . . A forever home.”
“I know,” I said again.
She spun back toward me. “Howdoyou know all these things?” Then she closed her eyes, shook her head, and lifted a finger. “Don’t tell me. Becks told you, didn’t she?”
“She really loves to talk.”
“She’s the worst.”
“Or the best,” I corrected.
We walked up the pathway and into the house. Sophie, who was like a kid in a toy store, went bouncing off through the foyer and disappeared up the steps before I even had a chance to give her the history of the place.
It was a few minutes later when I caught up with her again in the kitchen.
“This place is amazing,” she exclaimed, looking flushed, her cheeks pink and her hair falling into her face.
“You love it?”
“Of course, I do.” She crossed the gap between us and threw her arms around my neck. “I can’t believe you did this,” she whispered, her mouth inches from mine.
“I wanted to do something special for you.”
“Buying flowers is special, Alex. Buying a house is outrageous.”
“Should I ask for the deposit back?”
“Definitely not,” she cackled, her gaze no longer on my eyes, but on my lips. At that moment, I knew where this was going. Our new house needed to be christened and, judging by the look on Sophie’s face, she wasn’t prepared to wait for move-in day.
Neither was I.
Before I could lean in and make the first move, Sophie pressed her lips to mine, her tongue dipping between them as she snaked her fingers through my hair. Nothing in the world would be enough to stop this moment, not even the absence of curtains.
At least the kitchen was far enough away from the front-facing windows that the only way someone could see in was to stick their faces up against the glass. The bushes out front would provide an extra barrier.
Sophie’s hands were under my shirt, skating up my stomach while I brushed the straps of her dress down her shoulders. Her skin was soft like silk, her breath hot against my neck.
“I wish we had a bed,” I mumbled, my lips now pressed against her forehead as I drew her closer to me. Then I stepped forward and pushed her up against the counter.
“We don’t need a bed,” Sophie whispered, her fingers already fumbling with the zip of my jeans.
She was right.
The kitchen counter would suffice and, before I could even think about whether or not I had locked the front door, I grabbed her by the hips and lifted her onto the counter.
Her eyes locked with mine, her fingers giving up on the zip and instead skidding up along my chest and neck to finally weave through my hair. I used my hip to nudge her legs apart and moved between them. My right hand dropped to her thigh and found the hem of her dress, moving it up until it bunched around her hips.
Glancing down, admiring the soft tan on Sophie’s legs, her seven-month-pregnant belly, I skated my fingers across the inside of her bare thigh.
