“Not yet.” Colette pushes into a seated position, brushing her windswept hair from her face as she gazes out at the sea. “But it’s almost the weekend. I’m not expecting anything until Monday at the earliest.”
“Makes sense,” I say, literally biting my tongue to keep from asking the other question swirling through my head.
We’ve agreed not to talk about that, for fear of jinxing things. A part of me wishes Colette would break down and take a test already—they have tests that can detect pregnancy before you even miss a period these days—but she insists on waiting until she’s at least two days late.
“I only want to be disappointed once,” she’d said, tucking the box away beneath the sink a few nights ago. “I want to be sure I can trust the result.”
Which means two more days.
If we make it until Sunday night with no Aunt Flow crashing the party, then Colette will take the test, and we’ll know for sure.
The suspense is fucking killing me.
I can’t remember the last time I wanted anything this much. Not even when I was a kid, waiting around for the band’s first manager to call, praying we’d get the gig that would change the rest of our lives.
If only all my managers were as good as Devon, our first, and still one of our biggest fans.
“I forgot to tell you. Chip emailed again,” I say with a sigh. “He’s still threatening to sue for breach of contract.”
Colette rolls her eyes. “I looked at your contract. You were completely within your rights to terminate the agreement. He’s being crazy.”
“Agreed, but that might not stop him from suing.” I stretch out my legs, digging my toes into the warm sand. “I guess I should see about lawyering up next week.”
Colette’s lips turn down. “Not next week. It’s recording week. You need to focus on being creative and nothing else. Certainly not Chip the drip.”
“You’re right,” I say, flashing a hopeful grin her way. “Does this mean you’ve decided to come with me to Nashville? I’ll be able to concentrate on being creative so much better if I’m not missing you every night.”
She laughs. “You’re shameless.”
“I am. So come with me. We’ll have dinner together every night and spend Thursday sightseeing before we fly home.”
“But a last-minute plane ticket will be so expensive. Surely, we can make it four days without each other,” she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “And what about the mortgage paperwork and applications? I should stay here and get on top of that.”
“Or you could let me pay cash for our house when we find it,” I remind her.
She shakes her head. “No. I told you, I want us to be equal partners in everything, and that includes paying for our first home. I may not have a ton of savings—or a job,” she adds with a sigh, “but I have excellent credit.”
I grunt.
She laughs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What’s what supposed to mean?”
“The grunt.” She props her hands on her hips as she sits back on her heels. “I do have excellent credit. And one of these banks is going to wise up and realize they should loan me money any day now.”
I ease out of my chair and onto the blanket beside her. “I know you have excellent credit, and I would loan you money if I were a bank, but real banks are stupid. They have a long history of it. So why don’t we do this instead—I’ll pay for the house and you can write me an IOU for your half. Then you can pay it off when you have a job and money to spare, interest-free.”
She wrinkles her nose, but when I reach for her, she slides closer without hesitation. “That could take years. Maybe even decades.”
I shrug and kiss her temple. “I don’t care.”
“But your money could be earning interest instead. Or you could invest in rental property or something.”
“I’m not worried about it, Cee. I told you, money isn’t a big deal to me anymore. I just want to be with you and be happy.”
She leans her head on my shoulder. “I’m already happy. So happy.”
“Me, too,” I say, my heart racing faster as I realize this is it, the right moment, the perfect moment. It isn’t what I had planned—I was going to wait until dinner tonight with a brilliant August sunset and an acoustic version of the first song I wrote for Colette in my arsenal—but this feels so right.
And terrifying.
I know there’s a chance she’ll say no. A very real chance. She’s made no secret of the fact that her feelings about marriage are complicated and not particularly favorable.
But if she says no, I’ll bide my time and ask her again. I want to stand with her in front of all our family and friends and promise the rest of my life to her. More importantly, I want to know she’s legally protected and provided for in the event anything should happen to me.