Page 62 of Sideline Play

Remi doesn’t bother to fix his shirt or grab his sweater as he turns off the car. He simply opens his door, slides me off his lap and steps down, lifting me out and gently putting me on the ground. Once we’re in front of the heavy front door, he turns to face me, hand reaching out to cup my face, thumb dragging along my bottom lip. “I didn’t do this with the objective of sleeping with you tonight. I just wanted every part of tonight to be memorable for you and not have you coming home feelin’ like Cinderella once the clock struck midnight.”

“I don’t understand.”

Kissing my forehead, he murmurs, “You will.” He turns me to face the door as he punches in the code on the handle, opening it for me the moment the lock disengages.

Though the lights are turned out, the room glows. Thick pillar candles in tall and stout hurricane vases are clustered throughout the open space, their light reflecting in the windows and bouncing their warm illumination back at us. Stepping over the threshold, I slowly follow where they lead, occasionally spinning to take in the view from all angles as if I’m expecting it to vanish if I don’t keep my eyes on it at all times.

Stopping at where Winnie is snoring on the giant upholstered ottoman, not bothering to wake up and greet us, I scratch between her ears and meet Remington’s distorted reflection, asking, “You did all this for me?”

Hands in his pockets as he lingers back watching me, he shrugs, “Technically I requested Wanda to do it all when she came to clean while we were out, but yeah, it was my idea.”

Kissing Winnie’s head, one of her caramel eyes sleepily peeking open before closing again, I slip off my heels and in a flurry of tulle, run for Remington, and jump into his arms. His catch of me is effortless, his stance steady as my weight collides with him, a truly immovable force. Legs locked around his waist, arms secured at his neck, and his hands cupping my butt, I kisshim without preamble, my tongue immediately seeking his. It’s fast and hot, an overflow of the emotions crashing through me and over far too quickly yet only beginning.

Short of breath and filled with renewed desperation to have him as close and as deep inside of me as possible, I barely pull away from his mouth as I gasp, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Scarlet.”

“No, like, I really love you. All consuming, desperate for you every minute of every day, counting the steps when you leave the room, can’t have enough of you, longing for you to be a part of me in every way possible, hopelessly gone and forever committed, in love with you. First, last, and everything in between, it’s yours. Take it, all of it. I don’t want it if it’s not with you. And too fast, too soon, too insane, I don’t care. I don’t want to wait either. For any of it.”

“What are you saying?”

Smoothing my hands up his dark ash blond hair, I answer, “I’m saying, there is no perfect wedding to plan. There’s only you, me, my dad, Ro and Reeves, Winnie, and anyone you wish to be there. That’s it. That’s all I need, all I want.” As an afterthought, I add, “And okay yes, a dress; but that shouldn’t be a surprise. I never turn down a chance to shop.”

Chuckling, he asks, “That’s it? You never?—”

“Just you, Remington. You’re all I see when I think about it.”

Kissing my neck, he murmurs, “You’re all I see too.” Then unleashing a little bit of naughty, he amends, “You and your legs trembling in your pretty little shoes while you hold your dress up so I can take you in the pantry because I’m too fuckin’ hungry for my wife in order to wait.”

Letting my head fall back as his fingers sweep through my cleavage, his tongue tracing my collarbone, I sigh, “Remi?”

“Hmm?”

“Bed. Now. Down or up I don’t care, I just?—”

Nipping at the swell of my breasts before licking the sting, he devilishly asks, “Is my girl impatient for my cock?”

“Yes!” I shout hoarsely.

Wholly unrepentant as he smiles at me, he coos, “But I haven’t shown you the answer to your question yet,” setting me down only to pick me back up in a bridal carry and start making his way to the stairs.

Each step is marked with an alternating arrangement of candles, their flames casting long shadows across the floor and walls as he climbs. At the top of the landing, even more await us, acting as a beacon to the bedroom.

Crossing the threshold, Remington puts me back down but keeps his arms around me as he stoops to rest his chin on my shoulder, quietly asking, “Did I get the right ones?”

Intermingled with the candles in our room are vases filled with arrangements of white peonies, dusty pink roses, and stems of eucalyptus, their fragrance delicate but unmistakably perfuming the air. Shuffling more than walking over to one on the dresser, I lower my nose to the cluster of flowers and inhale, asking, “You did, but how did you know?”

“I shamelessly stalked your social media,” he confesses. “You have a series of pictures captioned, ‘My Favorites,’ and amongst the collages of Ro, Colt, Winnie, and baseball, you had these.”

“You do way too much for me, Remi.”

“Impossible. Nothing will ever be too much if it’s for you. But…” he trails off, letting me go and walking backward toward the bed. “This still isn’t what I wanted to show you. I told you, this was all plannedbeforewe even left.”

“It’s not?”

Shaking his head as he reaches his nightstand, he answers, “No,” beginning to shuffle through the items inside, his entire house an organizer’s dream except for that drawer. Pullingsomething out, he playfully announces, “Catch,” before tossing it my way.

Clasping it between my hands, I open them up and immediately close them again, looking between him and what my hands conceal.

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