59. Maeve #2
“We have something for you too,” Hayden says quietly, and there’s something in his tone that makes me look at him more closely. He seems almost nervous, which is unusual for him. “But it’s a little different. Would you mind coming with us?”
I hadn’t even noticed that they hadn’t given me anything yet.
Honestly, I hadn’t expected much beyond maybe a polite gift that Elaine suggested, something nice but impersonal.
The thought that they’d planned something specific makes my stomach flutter with anticipation.
But I follow the men as they lead me down the hall into the room they’ve been using as their temporary office, the one with the big mahogany desk and built-in bookshelves.
They close the door behind us with a soft click, and then all three start pulling off their shirts with deliberate, synchronized movements. I frown in confusion, my heart rate picking up for reasons I can’t quite identify. “What are you doing?”
Once their chests are bare, they turn to face me in perfect unison, and I notice the gauze patches taped to their skin over their hearts. The medical tape is white and clinical, at odds with the Christmas morning atmosphere.
Each of them peels back the tape to reveal fresh tattoos underneath, the skin slightly flushed and angry looking.
But what makes my breath catch isn’t the obvious newness of the ink—it’s what the tattoos say.
The word “mine” scrawled in my exact handwriting, as messy and impulsive as it looks when I scribble it on post-it notes and stick them on my lunch in the office fridge.
“When did you get these done?” I ask, my voice a whisper. My mind races back through the past twenty-four hours, trying to figure out when they could have possibly disappeared long enough for this. “Last night?”
“Yup. After you were knocked out,” Gabriel confirms with a hint of pride in his voice. “We paid a tattoo artist to make a house call around midnight.”
“No wonder you said you had a long night.” I shake my head in amazement, still staring at the fresh ink on their chests. The permanence of it hits me suddenly. They’ve literally marked themselves as mine. “But… are you sure you want something so permanent? What if?—”
“We absolutely want it,” Ford replies firmly, cutting off my doubts before I can voice them. “The more permanent the better. The mark you’ve left on us is already permanent, regardless of the tattoos.”
“Even if you disappeared tomorrow,” Gabriel says quietly, “we’d still belong to you. This just proves it.”
I wipe away the tears threatening to spill over, overwhelmed by what they’ve done. “Good thing I’m not going anywhere then.”
Gabriel’s lips curve upward, and I can see the possessive gleam in his eyes that I’ve come to love. “Smart girl. Because if you tried, I’d track you down and drag you back.”
He pulls me against him and kisses me thoroughly, his mouth warm and demanding, followed by Hayden and Ford in turn.
“I can’t believe this is what you got me for Christmas!” I laugh, playfully shoving at their chests, careful to avoid the fresh tattoos. “You permanently marked yourselves for me.”
“Oh, um, actually that wasn’t your gift,” Hayden says, looking almost sheepish. “That was for us. Your gift is something else entirely.”
“What?” I blink at them in confusion, my mind struggling to process that there’s more.
They move to their laptops scattered across the heavy wooden desk, opening them simultaneously with the kind of coordinated precision that speaks to how long they’ve worked together.
“Your business plans were incredibly detailed,” Hayden says, his voice taking on that professional tone he uses when he’s proud of something they’ve accomplished. “Surprisingly thorough for someone who was ‘just dreaming.’ They were actually easy to implement.”
I step closer to the screens, trying to process what I’m seeing.
Property deeds with my name on them. Construction contracts with detailed timelines.
Architectural renderings that show a building exactly like what I’ve sketched in notebooks for years.
Detailed mockups of a restaurant interior that looks like it was pulled directly from my dreams—exposed brick walls, rustic wooden tables, an open kitchen where diners can watch the magic happen, floor-to-ceiling windows that would flood the space with natural light.
“You were willing to sacrifice everything to help us chase our ambitions.” Hayden’s tone is softer now, more personal. “Seemed like it was our turn. The property is yours, free and clear. Construction starts in spring.”
I’m speechless. The scope of what they’ve done—the planning and expense and sheer audacity of it—hits me like a freight train.
This isn’t just a gift; it’s my entire future handed to me on a silver platter.
So instead of trying to find words that don’t exist, I throw myself at them and kiss each one like my life depends on it, pouring all my shock and gratitude and overwhelming love into it.
Christmas morning doesn’t get much better than this.