Page 148 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I grin. “Told you. I’m the romantic type.”
She huffs a laugh and pulls me into a kiss—slow, languid, all tongue and trust.
When we finally break apart, I properly tuck the blanket around her and lie beside her, pulling her into my arms.
Her head rests against my chest, her legs intertwined with mine. I trace idle patterns on her back while the jet hums softly beneath us.
“I meant what I said, Liv,” I murmur. “You’re mine now.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
But her hand finds mine beneath the blanket.
And she squeezes.
Hard.
“I know,” she whispers. “And I think I’m fucked.”
I grin against her hair. “We really are.”
Chapter Forty-One
Olivia
The Crawford Introduction
The first thing I notice when we land is that the air smells . . . expensive.
Like trees receiving weekly facials. Like grass that has never been touched by actual feet, only admired from wraparound porches. Like generational wealth that understands it’s better than to post about itself.
Lucian helps me down the steps of the jet-like we’re starring in a soft launch of Succession: The Golden Retriever Son Edition. His hand is warm around mine, and I tell myself it’s just a gentlemanly gesture. Definitely not comfort. Definitely not safety. Definitely not related to the fact that I might’ve curled into him like a mildly overwhelmed, semi-feral kitten for the past hour, and now don’t quite know what to do with my limbs.
“Welcome to part of my childhood.” Lucian motions to the estate ahead like it’s a charming bed-and-breakfast and not a literal castle with windows that probably cost more than my student loans.
I squint up at the house—or mansion—or architectural humblebrag with excellent landscaping. “You said it was a house, not Knives Out Three: Sports Gentlemen Edition.”
Lucian grins. “Technically, it is a house. Just . . . a house with stables, a private rink, and probably enough square footage to qualify as a small country.”
We walk toward the entrance, Sarah’s arrival being coordinated like she’s royalty and not a dog who once tried to eat my sock drawer. I glance over at Lucian. “Do I need to curtsy?”
“Only if Papa offers you a bourbon before dinner. That’s his test. If you decline, he’ll still like you. Accept, he’ll love you. Say something insightful about the oak finish and he’ll start planning our wedding.”
I shoot him a look. “You’re doing that thing again where you pretend to help, but you’re actually making me more anxious.”
He squeezes my hand. “Relax. They’re just simple people who believe in linen napkins and heirloom tomatoes and probably have a wine cellar that could cure depression.”
I snort. “Simple. Sure. Just like you were ‘casual’ when you sent me a playlist for ‘Packing Sarah’s Favorite Toys.’”
“That playlist slapped,” he says, completely unbothered.
As we reach the front steps, I catch him texting. “Are you calling the butler?”
“There’s no butler,” he replies, eyes still on his phone. “Just letting everyone know we’re here. And coordinating help getting Sarah off the plane.”
“I could’ve helped.”
“We need her kennel, too,” he says. “And her travel blanket. And her peanut butter chews.”
