Page 150 of Butter My Biscuit

She looks at me. “Youalwaysnotice them?”

“Always,” I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulder. “In the hot tub. At Christmas. New Year. And a decade before then. You’ve pretty much always been a shitty liar.”

“I just thought you didn’t notice.” She chuckles.

“I notice everything about you, princess.”

We break apart and then do the touristy things around the city. Honestly, it doesn’t matter that we’re in Paris. I’d be content no matter where we were, as long as we were together.

By the time we make it back to the hotel, we’re tired. So, we take a nap, where I spoon the shit out of her for two hours, and then we get up and shower together. Grace dresses much faster than me, and as the sun sets, she stands in front of the gigantic windows, waiting. Tonight, we have a dinner reservation on a boat. We’ll eat delicious food by candlelight as a violinist serenades us.

I drink her in, and she sips champagne, wearing that dress that nearly brought me to my knees just a few nights ago. Her chin-length hair is in loose curls that barely blow in the breeze. As if she feels my eyes on her, she turns around, memorizing my body in her favorite suit.

“Damn,” she mutters.

She looks at me like I belong to her. I wonder if it’s always been this way.

And I know it has. We’re just both finally able to admit it.

I adjust my cuff link and walk toward her, wearing a smirk. Then, I pull her into my arms, and we dance on our balcony to the sound of our hearts beating.

Eventually, we come to a stop, and I create a bit of space. “I have another truth to confess.”

“Tell me,” she whispers, feeling the seriousness of the moment, but I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life.

“One day, I’m gonna make you my wife.” Our eyes stay locked, and I promise with an X over my heart.

“You’d better,” she says desperately, her mouth quickly on mine as she wraps her arms around my neck.

I hold her against me, the kisses grow intense, and I can’t explain the elation. I’m high on her, high on knowing that we both want the same things in life—each other.

I take her spare hand, interlocking my fingers with it. “You know I always keep my promises to you,” I mutter in her ear.

“I know.” She’s breathless as I kiss her neck, inhaling her warm vanilla skin. “I don’t want to go anywhere tonight.”

“Fuck, me neither,” I say, leading her back inside.

We got dressed for a night out, just to remove every single item of clothing we had on because the two of us do things our way, like we’ve always done before.

We make love with the balcony doors open. The sheer cream curtains lightly flap in the breeze as the lights from outside casts shadows on the suite floor. We physically and emotionally tear each other down, only to build the other up, completely losing ourselves in the moment.

And when we’retemporarilysatisfied, trying to catch our breaths and let our heart rates settle, we take turns sharing more truths and talking about the past. Confessing our sins. Revealing our fantasies. And I know that when we finally leave Paris, there will be no more secrets left between us, only our unbreakable promises.

35

GRACE

ONE WEEK LATER

Isit across the table from our mothers, the two women who have been pairing us together since we were in the womb, as I wait for Harrison to show up. He was finishing up at the stables and then would be right here. They fill the space with small talk about the weather and complain about the cost of stamps—the same familiar conversations they’ve had for years.

I glance out the window in the Valentines’ kitchen and think about all the times Harrison has sat next to me at this table as our mothers reprimanded us. The stupid shit we used to do as kids got us in trouble, and we had plenty of discussions at this table about why we don’t sneak out in the middle of the night or steal horses or climb to the top of trees. My mom learned that I didn’t care if she took away my TV or my phone, and Mrs. Valentine figured out that grounding us from each other was the only thing either of us cared about. When my mom wouldn’t let me see Harrison, it felt like I was dying. As an adult, it feels the same.

The sound of the front door closing, followed by boots shuffling against the wooden floor, pulls me from my thoughts. When I turn my head, Harrison walks in, wearing that baseball hat. Our eyes meet, and he immediately gives me that sexy-as-fuck smile that melts panties and steals hearts. My heart flutters when he picks up his pace just to place the softest kiss on my lips before sitting next to me.

“So, this is going to be a fun conversation,” he says, and he sounds excited as he places his arm around me.

When I see the dimple in his cheek appear, I know that he is being genuine.

---