Page 175 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“We might. Aspen’s bringing a few from the rescue. Just for today.”
“Of course.”
Sir Wiggles lets out a honk-like bleat, and I swear it’s judgmental.
Olivia’s chewing her lip now, staring down the espresso machine. I slide Sir Wiggles into the designated goat pen—yes, that’s a thing—and crouch beside the coffee machine, popping the tank and checking the plug.
“Problem solved,” I say a minute later, wiping my hands on a towel like I’ve just defused a bomb instead of fixing the espresso machine. “You didn’t push the tank in all the way. The machine’s a little . . . temperamental. Like someone I know.”
She gasps, outraged and radiant. “I am not temperamental.”
“You’re right,” I deadpan. “You’re an extremely stable, grounded individual who once yelled at a cardboard cutout of a cartoon sloth because it fell on you at the pharmacy.”
“That was self-defense, and you know it,” she snaps back, yet she’s already laughing—this bright, breathless kind of laugh that hits me harder than it should. The kind that makes my ribs feel too tight and my brain short-circuit in the most inconveniently romantic way possible.
And then—God help me—I say it.
“I’m going to marry you. Full buying a ring, kneeling in front of you and proposing.”
The words tumble out like I’ve been holding them in my mouth too long and they just gave up waiting for permission.
She freezes. “I’m sorry—what?”
I stand up too fast and immediately regret it. “I mean—I didn’t mean—not right now. I just—fuck.”
“You’re going to what me?” Her eyes are full-blown saucers now. Her hands grip the edge of the espresso counter like she’s bracing for emotional whiplash.
I rub the back of my neck, my mouth dry, my brain trying to catch up with the part of me that just sprinted ahead and proposed like we’re in the finale of a reality dating show. “Eventually. Maybe very soon. I just—I think about it. A lot. You and me. This place. Sarah with a ring on her collar. You saying something ridiculous like ‘you had me at neuter.’”
“I would never say that.”
“You totally would.”
She stares at me, expression unreadable. My heart decides now’s the perfect time to throw a tantrum inside my chest.
And then—softly, like it’s something sacred and a little scary—she says, “I think about it too.”
That sentence wrecks me in the best way.
She clears her throat, trying to sound casual, like she didn’t just hand me her entire future in a whisper. “Not, like, that specifically. I mean, Sir Wiggles would obviously be the ring bearer. But yeah. Sometimes. You and me. This. Just . . . being a thing.”
We stand there in it, this almost-too-big silence that’s not empty at all. It’s full of everything we haven’t said and everything we already know.
And then, in possibly the most on-brand moment of our entire relationship, Sir Wiggles farts loud enough to register on the Richter scale… and promptly rolls off his bed.
We lose it.
Olivia snorts. I double over, gasping for air. Sarah barks like she’s deeply offended. Tears prick my eyes from laughing so hard.
And just like that, the moment’s gone—but not erased. It’s still here, tucked under our laughter. Real.
She wipes her eyes. “Okay. New plan. You handle the espresso machine. I’ll go figure out how to turn Halston’s Exotic Pet Emporium back into Olivia’s Small Animal Clinic before someone shows up with a python and an attitude.”
I catch her wrist as she turns.
Her skin is warm beneath my palm, and her pulse is a little too fast. Mine probably matches.
“Soon,” I say, quieter now. “I’m going to get a ring and propose. Not today. But I will. Okay?”
