Page 121 of Hometown Touchdown
Because I want the proposal, sure. I want the sparkly ring and the future, and the kitchen filled with matching mugs. But more than anything, I want this life. These people. These moments.
Kate raises her mug. “To Brynn. For not proposing toherselfyesterday.”
Kinsey lifts her juice glass. “To Knox. For surviving family dinner without blowing the big moment.”
Evie holds up her empty cup. “To sparkles!”
And me?
I raise my coffee. “To being wildly in love with a man who better have a plan.”
We’re curled up on the couch, Knox’s arm draped across my shoulders, his thumb drawing circles lazily over my skin while a ridiculous '90s action movie plays. He’s not even pretending to take it seriously, but I know he secretly loves the explosions and dramatic one-liners.
I’m only half-watching, half-scrolling through dessert videos, when I sigh and say, “You know what would make this night perfect?”
He doesn’t even glance away from the screen. “World peace?”
“Cookies.”
That gets his attention.
He turns, one brow arched, lips twitching. “From-scratch cookies or whatever’s left in the emergency Oreo stash?”
“From scratch,” I say, already standing and stretching. His too-big sleep shirt slides up my thighs and catches his gaze like a hook. “We deserve the real deal.”
He smirks and rises in one long stretch, his sweatpants riding low on his hips. “Say less, baby girl. Let’s bake.”
— — —
The kitchen glows with warm overhead lights and soft spillover from the living room. There’s a cozy jazz playlist humming in the background. Knox insisted it set the “chef’s mood,” though he’s already dancing behind me like a dork, bumping my hip while I scroll through cookie recipes.
“This was your idea, just to be clear.”
Knox stops dancing and leans against the counter beside me, looking like he belongs on a cooking competition show calledHot & Inconveniently Distracting.His sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his eyes track every move I make like he’s trying to memorize me in real time.
“You say that like I regret it,” I mutter, scrolling through my phone as I lean over the counter. “I don’t.”
I can feel his gaze heating up my spine.
“You’re in my shirt,” he says slowly, voice low and playful, “scrolling dessert porn with bare legs and no shame.”
I glance at him and raise an eyebrow. “And yet you’re the one who keeps stealing ingredients.”
He tosses another handful of chocolate chips into his mouth. “Baker’s tax.”
I snort, shaking my head as I pull the browned butter off the stove and let it cool. “We’re never getting through this recipe if you keep eating it.”
He saunters over and wraps an arm around my waist, chin landing on my shoulder. “We’re making memories. And cookies. That’s balance.”
His voice is a lazy rumble against my skin, and the way he’s standing behind me—pressed against my back like he could devour me through proximity alone—is anything but balanced.
“You’re not even pretending this isn’t foreplay,” I whisper, trying to focus on measuring flour while he ghosts kisses along the side of my neck.
He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “You started it.”
We mix together the dough—laughing, stealing licks off each other’s fingers. It’s soft and messy and exactly the kind of night I never thought I’d get to have again with him. He slides his hands over mine when I stir, leans in a little too close every time I reach across him, whispers praise in my ear just to watch me squirm.
By the time we get the tray into the oven, I’m warm all over. And not just from the oven.
