Page 79 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“You’re not ruining anything,” I say, cupping his face. “What ruins it is pretending there’s nothing waiting for us back home.”
He nods once, the weight of that acknowledgment sinking in. Then, for the first time since I came outside, he really looks at me. And smiles. Not the guarded one. The real one. The one that makes me feel like I’m the only thing in his world.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Now that I’ve peeled you open emotionally… can we talk about wedding stuff?”
His brows rise. “You want to talk about that now?”
“Well,” I tease, running my fingers through his hair, “you did kind of propose last week, and I never technically said yes. I feel like I should lock it in before you change your mind.”
He scoffs and pulls me closer. “Not happening.”
“So you’re sure?”
“Try and run,” he says, voice low. “See what happens.”
A warm flutter starts low in my belly. “That a threat or a promise?”
His fingers squeeze my thighs. “You know which.”
I laugh, breathless. “Okay then. Let’s say we do this. What’s your vision? Secret elopement? City hall drive-by? Beach ceremony with bare feet and regret?”
Jack groans. “Please don’t make me say the word ‘table-scape.’”
“I’ll take that as a no to custom calligraphy.”
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t need artisanal menus and fifteen kinds of flowers flown in from somewhere I can’t pronounce.”
“Okay, fine. No theme. No Pinterest. What do you want then?”
He pauses. “Somewhere peaceful. Real. Not a show. Just you. Me. A few people we trust. Somewhere that doesn’t feel like we’re performing for anyone.”
I tilt my head. “Like a cabin? Rooftop? Tuscany?”
His brow arches. “You have a Tuscany plan?”
“I have a Tuscany folder.”
He groans again, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch. “Of course you do.”
“I mean, are we doing a registry?” I ask, half serious. “Or just letting people guess what we need?”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You think I’m letting strangers decide what ends up in our kitchen?”
I grin. “You’re weirdly territorial about cutlery for someone who orders takeout four nights a week.”
“I have standards,” he says. “Also, I once lost a fight with a can opener and a bottle of pinot noir. Not doing that again.”
“Fair.” I tap his chest. “Okay, but what about colors? Do you care?”
His face goes still. “Is this a trap?”
“Maybe.”
“Ivy. I will marry you wearing a garbage bag if that’s what it takes. But I’m not debating ‘dusty rose’ versus ‘terracotta blush.’ I don’t even know what those are.”
“They’re vibes,” I say, mock offended. “Aesthetic philosophies. You wouldn’t understand.”
He pulls me close, murmuring into my ear. “I understand this: you show up, I say I do, and we leave married. You pick the rest.”
