Page 60 of Love You Truly

Dash and I have a date on the calendar, but there’s no reason we can’t move things up. His family owns the premiere wedding venue in the entire town.

My mother won’t know what hit her. In the meantime, the discussion is over, and I walk back out make sure Dash isn’t underneath my parents’ car, only to find them walking into the house together.

My dad, whose beard has gone gray, tips his fedora at us and pats Dash on the back. “Glad we got that solved, Mr. Rutherford,” Dash says. I have to turn away to hide my smile at his boyish politeness.

“Nonsense. Henry, please.”

“Henry.” They stand two feet apart, both clearly nervous.

“Good to see you, Mallory.” My dad kisses my cheek. “Makes us happy to know our daughter has a partner watching her back.”

“Well, I’m watching more than that,” Dash says with a wink. I expect my parents to choke on the implication, but nothing can dim their smiles. “Let me pour us some wine.”

My dad holds up a bottle he brought. “Show me to the corkscrew. I’ll do it.”

Before Dash leads him to the drawer of kitchen tools, I pull on his shirt and drag him closer to me. “They love you!” I whisper, and I’m treated to both cheek dimples and a kiss on the temple. “Oh, and we’re gonna need to push up the wedding date.”

He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll explain later.”

“Okay. Plan for world domination. Activated,” he replies before attending to the wine opening task.

Activated, indeed.

CHAPTER 23

Dash

“We don’t need to go to the carnival if you don’t want to,” Mallory says, handing me a piece of buttered toast. She invited me over for breakfast before our plans to hit up the annual carnival at the high school. It’s a local tradition.

I flip the toast upside down and take a bite, letting the buttery side melt on my tongue. If the toast is this delicious, I can’t wait to dig into whatever else she’s cooking.

“I want to go. With you.” I want to be sure she knows I’m not in it for the Whack-a-Mole game.

“Okay.” She casts me a sideways glance, maybe searching for meaning behind my emphatic reply. I reach for her chin and guide her face to meet mine so I can kiss her. It’s a better explanation than any words I have. When I pull away, her eyes have that dreamy, dazed look I love.

“Okay,” she concedes.

End of discussion.

When I arrived a half hour ago, the scent of melted butter hit my nose as soon as I opened the door to my truck. I practically sprinted to her front door, only to find it cracked open. I knocked even though the door seemed like an invitation to enter, but Mallory didn’t answer.

I walked through her front entryway to her kitchen and saw why. In a beam of sunlight that looked like a movie pro had choreographed it, Mallory swayed to a Taylor Swift ballad I recognized because it had been playing at the Dark Horse on the night Mallory and I revealed we’re “engaged.”

Holding the spatula up like a microphone, Mallory sang along to lyrics about a guy who sounded like a big mistake one summer. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that the same song is playing from that first night. Maybe it’s a personal favorite of hers.

She intermittently stirs a pan of eggs and stops to sing into the spatula, her back facing me. It’s fucking adorable, and I’m torn between letting her know I’m here and staring at her for as long as I can without her knowing.

From what she’s singing, she keeps returning to the guy even though she knows it’s a mistake all summer.

I wouldn’t be the first person in the world to do that. I’ve had my share of picking the wrong person.

Mallory bops along to the song and shakes her ass, which looks goddamn amazing in a pair of white denim cutoffs, and now I feel like a creeper staring at her without her realizing it.

“Hey.”

She doesn’t hear me. She’s singing too loudly, swiveling her hips and stirring the eggs. It doesn’t matter that her voice is a little off-key—I’m here for all of it. Between the smell of toast and buttery eggs and the sight of her dancing in front of me, it feels like Christmas morning, and I’m not sure which gift I want to open first.

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