Page 136 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
We’d decided to make the house our official shared home three months after the engagement. Not rushed, not pressured, just the next logical step for two people who’d stopped being afraid of what they wanted.
“Your turn,” she said, nodding toward the box I was carrying.
I set my collection of vintage law books on the built-in shelves, sliding them between her photography books and the cookbook we’d bought in Italy. The mix looked right, professional, personal, two lives blending without losing their individual character.
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Naomi said, wrapping her arms around my waist from behind.
“Having second thoughts?”
“Not a single one. You?”
I turned in her arms, looking down into her face. “It’s the best decision I’ve ever made.”
She stood on her toes to kiss me, softly. When we pulled apart, she was smiling, and every time I saw that smile, I was filled with emotion.
“We’re keeping both my condo and your penthouse for now, right?”
“For now,” I agreed. “No rush to sell anything. We have time to figure it all out.”
That had been our approach to everything since the engagement: taking time, ensuring quality, and building a solid foundation, rather than rushing toward some arbitrary finish line. It was working. Hell, it was more than working.
Naomi picked up an envelope from the nightstand and handed it to me. “This came for us today.”
The return address made me smile. “Brandy and George?”
“Open it.”
Inside was a hand-drawn invitation decorated with dice and playing cards.
“You’re cordially invited to Game Night at the Community Center - Second Saturday of the Month - 7 PM - Pool, Spades, Dominos, and More!”
“Remember when they first told us about this?” Naomi asked, reading over my shoulder.
“How could I forget?”
I folded the invitation and looked at her. “Want to go?”
“To game night? With our actual neighbors, as our actual selves?”
“That’s the idea.”
She pretended to think about it. “I’d love to. But I should warn you, I’m competitive at spades.”
“But not UNO?”
She gasped and swatted me. “Was that a dig at my card-playing capabilities?”
I laughed and drew her close. “Of course not, baby. No dig, you just suck.”
Her mouth widened, and I couldn’t maintain my guffaw.
Three days later
We were sitting in a corner booth at Soulful with the smell of my Aunt Bernice’s famous fried chicken wafting around us. Family dinner had moved to the restaurant tonight because Dad insisted we start mixing things up. What he really wanted was an excuse to eat Aunt Cherry’s peach cobbler, which she only made at Soulful.
“Boys,” our father said. “I need to tell you something.”
The tone made all three of us go quiet. Dad didn’t do serious unless something was really wrong.
