Page 118 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

We’d said those words.

Him first.

Because I was a real chickenshit when it came to my own feelings.

But my words nearly tripped over themselves to rush out as soon as he said those three words. Okay, his was five words. Because, heaven forbid, he missed a chance to call mesugar tits.

So, yes, it started as loving and hopeful.

But it wasn’t long until we were tearing the clothes off of each other, before our hands were roaming, stoking little sparks until they became a raging wildfire.

Before we knew it, August was slamming inside of me from behind, and my face was buried in the bedding, trying to muffle my moans as he drove me up.

August’s hands took a handful of my hair, pulling me up.

“Go ahead and scream,” he said, pounding into me. “They’re not going to be our neighbors for long,” he said, his words and thrusts pushing me right to that edge, then sending me soaring into a whole-body orgasm, leaving me trembling and boneless.

August crashed down next to me, but curled over me, reaching for something.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Getting your phone,” he said. “To tell that realtor to make an over-list price offer right now.”

Have I mentioned how much I loved this man?

‘Cause I did.

More than I ever thought I was even capable of.

Did he still bitch about my reusable silicone bags that took the place of his little single-use zipper bags? Yep. Did I still nag him about the ingredients in his after shave? Absolutely. Did we still bicker and disagree? All the time. But, somehow, it was our differences that made for such a deep bond between us.

He cared about the things I cared about not because he necessarily did, but because he knew I did.

I learned how to do things that had never been in my wheelhouse before. Like compromise. Like not always get my way.

And, amazingly enough, I actually liked that.

It meant that we were building something together, that I wasn’t going to have to always be and do everything alone for the rest of my life.

“I think that big Weeping Willow has to be taken down in the backyard, though,” August said after contacting the realtor.

“Over my dead body,” I said, making August’s lips twitch.

“Want to argue about it for a while?” he asked, and I knew exactly what was on his mind.

“Yes, but I want some of that leftover pasta first,” I said, rolling over his body.

And as I walked to the kitchen, I caught sight of myself in a mirror, stopping dead in my tracks.

Because there it was.

A giant smile on my lips, my joy seeping out of my very pores. That same look that my dad had on his desk of me when I first opened my shop.

Bone-deep happy.

That was what I was.

And something told me that it was only going to get better.

---