Page 113 of Best Man Speaking

“Hey, Marcus, it’s nice to hear your voice too. I didn’t see your face in the café today. It was such a nice change.”

“I’ll remember that the next time you rattle the tip jar in my face.”

“I do not—” Erica starts, but Marcus ends the call before she can continue.

The snort of a laugh that escapes me is less than delicate, but I don’t care, and from the look on Marcus’s face, he’s pretty happy to have been the cause of it.

“Erica got you at lunch, but I get you now.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say, sauntering like a fool in his direction.

Raising onto the balls of my feet, I wrap my arms around him. He brings his hands down to rest on my hips as I brush my lips to his cheek in the lightest of kisses. I pepper them, one after the other, before moving down along his jaw to his throat. I breathe in deeply, and look, I basically want to live in the crook of this man’s neck. But I’ve asked, and sadly, he isn’t up for it. And so, without giving myself away, I hover my lips gently above the delicate skin of his throat, and then I bite. It’s not hard, barely a nip of teeth, but even as his hands grip me to hold me tighter and pull me in, I’m laughing and springing away. The growl that sounds like it comes from his chest has me grinning. Living together is actually a fucking blast.

“No, but really, what’re you cooking?” I ask again, this time reaching for the lid of one of the pots resting on the stovetop.

“Pasta,” he says, using the dish towel to flick my hands away before I can even catch a glimpse of what’s within. I narrow my eyes on him. His skill at using the dish towel as a makeshift whip at a moment’s notice is something I envy. I saw him take down flies in the summer with one—the man is precise in his aim.

“Can we eat now?”

“Sure can,” he answers, and then asks, “But can you grab something for me first?”

“Yep,” I answer, picking up my sweater and handbag. “I need to take this upstairs anyway.”

“Perfect. On your way back, can you grab me the electric drill from the top of the attic stairs? I don’t want to forget to take it back to work tomorrow,” he says, moving back to the stove and lifting the lid from the pot of sauce I’d attempted to look in.

“Okay, be back in a minute.”

I don’t make it to the spare room we’ve been using as our bedroom. The new stairs we’d added for the attic space have been covered in a protective sheet, a plastic drape hanging in front of the attic door to keep the dust contained. But now it’s clean, the door open, with soft, inviting lighting emerging from within. My heart picks up its pace in my chest, my lower lip finding itself pressed between my teeth as I stand there.

“Go have a look,” a gentle voice says from behind me, and I look back over my shoulder at this man I love so utterly and completely. There’s been so much tied up in this house, in my dream of a life here. Of a dream that’s no longer mine alone.

Marcus looks happy, maybe a little nervous, and I get it because I feel the same. This attic space is where we spent so many hours together, where we had a few fumbling firsts, and where he held me as my heart broke in grief. And granted, we’ve grown a lot since then, but the promise he made me all those years ago has always remained.

I go to walk up the stairs, still carrying my things from downstairs, and then I think better of it, dropping it all to the ground first. I take the stairs quickly, and before I’m even through the door, I know it’s perfect. It’s not only that the construction phase is complete; everything’s here.

The floorboards are pale and smooth, a cream rug covering them. There’s a dressing table and wardrobe space to the right, a mirror and all the other things to the left. But it’s the bed that sits on a raised platform and the massive skylights on either side of the vaulted ceiling that hold my attention. Tonight, and every night going forward, we’re going to be able to see the stars from bed. It’s the dream, the promise from so long ago.

The candles and the fairy lights are likely just for this evening, but with dusk falling outside, they make the room look magical, even to cynical little me. The house that’s a home, the kitchen with the smell of home-cooked food, this room, and the man who’s made it happen, it’s more than I ever thought it could be.

When I turn around to tell Marcus just how much I love it, how much I love him, he’s already there, on one knee, my beautiful gold-and-ruby ring in hand.

And my answer is easy.

It’s yes.