Page 114 of Someone to Have
“Hey, at least I didn't call it the Kraken.”
Her smile widens. “How about the one-eyed wonder weasel? The beaver basher? The danger noodle?”
“Stop, please,” I beg even though my grin matches hers. “For the record, there must be something seriously wrong with me that hearing you joke about my dick makes me hard.”
“We could skip the hike altogether,” she suggests softly.
As tempting as that is, I shake my head. “But maybe that's why I picked a short walk for this morning? So we’ll have more time for breakfast in bed after. And by breakfast, I mean you and--”
“Then pancakes,” she says with a wink.
“Fine, but you're going to have to earn the whipped cream.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Now look who's all confidence.”
She shrugs. “It's probably the fencing.”
She took up the sport after the play ended as another way to challenge herself, saying she loved that it was just her and her opponent. No audience to worry about, no lines to deliver. For someone who used to stumble over her own words and feet in social situations, she’s found her grace with a sword in her hand.
I love this flirty version of her, and I also want to kiss the smirk right off her face. Except it's also my number one mission in life to keep it there. Always.
She opens the door to the truck and throws me another saucy smile over her shoulder. “Maybe we could jog the path to speed things up.”
I should probably be embarrassed at how head over heels I am for this woman, I think as I follow her. A guy who was best known as a commitment-phobic player, afraid of being hurt, and never wanting to settle down. But real happiness has a way of changing everything you thought you knew about yourself. Love makes you want things you never knew you were missing. And Tinkerbell is my missing piece.
It's a perfect May morning in Colorado—sunny with just the hint of a chill to the mountain air. Everything is coming alive around us. Tiny leaves unfurl at the end of aspen branches and the grass is turning from brown to green. Turning down a new contract in Germany was the easiest decision I ever made, and starting my own custom cabinetry business instead of working for Taylor's dad felt like the right kind of independence.
Between building kitchen islands for half the town and coaching rec hockey with the local kids, I’ve found my place in Skylark. What I'm about to do makes me feel totally alive, too, like I've finally woken up to what's important after years of sleepwalking through life.The easy flirting between Tink and me goes a long way to calm my nerves, which, despite how secure I feel in herlove—and loving her in return—are still dancing through my belly like a frenzied litter of spastic kittens.
Heading back to her apartment and breakfast in bed is a nice bonus of a shorter walk, but I have another reason for picking this particular location.
The Nature Center trails get busier once the center opens , but it’s early enough that we’re the only ones here now. She takes my hand as we head toward the path with the StoryWalk installation, and the familiar warmth of her fingers intertwined with mine steadies me even as my heart hammers against my ribs. The small velvet box in my pocket feels impossibly heavy, and I have to resist the urge to check for the hundredth time that it's still there. My palms are sweating despite the cool morning air, and I wonder if she can feel my nervous energy through our joined hands.
“Get a hold of yourself man,” I silently command.
“Get a hold of what?” she asks, giving me a curious look.
“Nothing.”
What the fuck is up with my penchant for muttering my internal thoughts out loud in front of her? It’s like I’m right back to where we started in our relationship—only now there’s so much more on the line. My heart. My future. Both of which are intrinsically tied to my sweet Tinkerbell.
As we approach the first of the StoryWalk posts that line the trail, I tug her closer toward it.
“We don’t need to stop and read each one,” she says. “You helped me change them out last month.”
“Let’s have another--”
“Something’s different.” She releases my hand and moves forward. “This isn’t the book we mounted.”
I wait, holding my breath, as she reads the first page, then turns back to me.
“The Story of Us,”she says slowly. “By Eric Anderson.” I can see the confusion on her face as she turns to me. “Did you write a book?”
“More of a long poem, although it doesn’t rhyme. It's our story, Tink, like the title says. From the beginning until now, all the moments that matter, all the reasons I fell in love with you.”
She inclines her head, her expression melting into something so tender it makes my chest tight. “You wrote me a poem?”
