Page 23 of The Pen Pal
“And you love it.”
“Damn right. I love every single thing.”
“Including me?”
“Especially you.” I plant a soft kiss on her mouth. “I love you, Amelia.”
She lets out a stuttering breath. “I love you, too, Adam.”
EPILOGUE
AMELIA
One Year Later
The last box thuds onto the floor, and Adam straightens with a dramatic groan. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and shoots me a look that screams, ‘You’re lucky I love you.’
Well, yeah. I’m feeling extremely lucky right now, especially as my gaze falls on his hard chest, made visible by the sweat on his thin, white shirt. Yum.
I stretch my arms above my head. “Ten big boxes, three small ones. You’ve got to admit, that’s restraint.”
He surveys the mountain of my things, some boxes overflowing with pillows and sequined blazers. “Restraint would’ve been five boxes. You packed an entire store.”
“That’s an exaggeration. If I wanted to pack an entire store, trust me, you and the neighbors could tell.” I step over a box labeled ‘Stuff.’ “You brought two boxes. And one includes the espresso machine.”
He lifts a brow. “I’m a man of few needs.”
I slap a hand to my forehead. “Aw, yep. I forgot. You only need me.”
At this, his face splits into the sweetest, most panty-melting smile. “Ain’t that the truth.”
The doorbell rings, and we both freeze like we forgot other humans existed. I pad over and open it to find salvation and happiness in two paper bags and a cardboard drink tray. I take the delivery with the reverence it deserves, making sure I don’t stumble on the boxes, and call out, “Coffee and takeout!”
We settle at the small dining table—still surrounded by half-unopened boxes and packing tape—and start unpacking dinner. I hand him his coffee and slide his preferred soy sauce packet across the table.
“For a minute, I was worried they wouldn’t deliver here,” Adam says as he spears a dumpling with his plastic fork because our favorite Chinese restaurant somehow forgot the chopsticks.
“They would always say yes to their favorite customer.”
He shrugs. “I order at least once a day. Of course, they’d love me.”
“Don’t judge the system,” I say as I dig through one of the takeout bags, “but I think I packed my chopsticks with my socks.”
Adam smirks. “I hate how on-brand that is.”
“Okay, don’t look now, but you just lined up the egg rolls perfectly.”
He stiffens because he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it. “They were … uneven?”
“You’re so lucky I’m here to bring a little chaos into your sterile life.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I’m sorry, but a little chaos? A little chaos? Miss ma’am, you stored candles in the fridge.”
I roll my eyes at him. “That happened once. No need to keep bringing it up.”
“It happened last week.”
We burst out laughing, and for a moment, it doesn’t matter that the apartment’s a mess or that we still have so much to do, and we both don’t know where the other cutlery is. We’re here together.
