He’s in my bed. In my fucking bed. And I never want him to leave it.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

Reese’s voice cuts into my thoughts, causing me to roll over. He pulls me against his body so we’re lying just like we were in my memory. I smile, wrapping my arms around him and pressing my lips against his chest.

“I’m more than okay. I have you in my bed.” A low laugh rumbles in his throat as I dig into the muscles in his back with my fingers. “Do you remember the first night you were in it?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “Do you remember what you said to me before we fell asleep?”

I glance up at him, momentarily stunned he remembers, and nod once. “That I couldn’t be without you again.”

His eyes focus on my mouth as he brushes my hair off my shoulder. “That. And you said you didn’t care if that was all we ever were. That you didn’t need anything else.” He pauses, his eyes reaching mine. “I almost asked you to marry me right then.”

My heart thunders in my chest. “Really?”

“Really.” He leans forward and captures my mouth in a tender kiss, his tongue lightly brushing against my lips, seeking entry. I give it to him and moan softly into his mouth. He pulls back after several seconds, blinking heavily before locking onto my eyes. “I knew then, Dylan. I knew way before then you were it for me. And I would’ve never let that be all we ever were.” He kisses my cheek, my jaw, and the side of my mouth. “You were always meant to be mine. Even before I knew it.”

I kiss his jaw before tucking my face underneath his head and relishing in his scent. “Damn straight.”

He wraps me against him, pressing his mouth to my hair. “You’re so romantic, love.”

I chuckle, feeling his body shake with laughter as he holds me. “You’re hard to compete with. Shall I try?”

“If you want.”

I nuzzle closer. “Will you marry me?”

He laughs, dropping a kiss to the top of my head. “Hell yes, I will.”

And for some reason, hearing his answer does something to me. Even though I said yes to him six months ago, it does something to me. “I was yours when I was sixteen.”

I feel his reaction to what I’ve just said. The way his grip on me tightens. The pause in his breathing and the shuddering exhale that follows. “Damn straight,” he finally replies after several seconds of silence.

And I smile as I’m pulled closer. Never close enough.

22

Tuesday in the shop went by without a glitch. Brooke showed up on time, surprisingly, and was proving herself to be a good addition to Dylan’s Sweet Tooth. She was great with customers, her bubbly personality winning over several of our regulars, and she and Joey were even getting along. For the most part. They were by no means besties, but they were at least tolerating each other and keeping their bickering to a minimum.

I stayed in the back all day, whipping up two special orders getting picked up on Wednesday. One was for Mr. and Mrs. Crisp who were celebrating their anniversary this week. They were my longest-standing customers, stopping in practically every morning for two of my famous banana nut muffins. I adored them and insisted on not charging for their cake. They’ve given me so much business over the last three and a half years, and this is my way of thanking them. Of course, the two of them argued with me until they were blue in the face about it, but I refused to take their money. I wanted to do this for them. Sixty-five years of marriage was definitely something to celebrate, and I felt honored to be a part of that.

Staying away from the foods I was told to avoid was becoming increasingly difficult. I’m sure there is no baker in the history of bakers who has gone on this strict of a diet before. I’ve never deprived myself of food; I’m not one of those girls. I eat. A lot. And this low-carb shit was seriously getting to me by mid-day on Wednesday. Not only did I not taste-test the German chocolate cake with extra coconut in the frosting I made yesterday, but I also steered clear of the red velvet cupcakes I whipped up for the other special order. And I don’t say ‘no’ to cupcakes. Ever. They are my go-to treat, the thing I’d request as my last meal if I were on death row. The one dessert I’d cut a bitch for, and they were off-limits. I was eating like a damn rabbit and hating every second of it. I’ve never been on a diet a day in my life and for the first time in the three-and-a-half years of owning my bakery, I was finding myself wishing I would’ve picked a different career path.

I’m pushing the pieces of lettuce around in my to-go container, hungry but not hungry enough to swallow another bite of this garbage while my dear assistant scarfs down a cheesesteak sub next to me. I’ve been giving him dirty looks since he returned with our lunches fifteen minutes ago, and he’s been doing his best to avoid my judging stare.

“I should fire you for eating that shit in front of me. As my Man of Honor, you should be suffering right along with me.” I shove my container away down the counter and flick my disapproving stare between his sub and his face. “Give me a bite of that.”

“Hell, no.” He turns his body so his back is to me, keeping his sandwich out of my reach. “You only have three more days and if you don’t fit into that dress, you’ll be pissed at me for giving you a bite.” Spinning around, he holds up his empty hands and chews animatedly. “This is so disgusting. You’d hate it,” he says through tight lips, his voice thick with sarcasm.