Chapter Thirty-Five
Negotiations
Banks
I wake up with a face full of honey-colored hair and Winnie’s leg wedged between mine. I’ve gotten used to how she sleeps by now—like a tornado with zero understanding of personal space. The old me probably would have hated it.
“You’re staring,” she mumbles into the pillow.
I chuckle softly and push her hair aside. “You’re in my bed.”
“Mm.” She pulls the blanket up. “Valid.”
She’s still half asleep, and I just look at her for a second. Part of me still can’t believe she’s here. That this is real.
She opens both eyes and looks at me properly. “What’s going on in there?”
I smirk and reach for my phone on the nightstand. Then I hand it to her without saying anything.
She takes it, squints at the screen, at the real estate listing I’ve pulled up. Wakes up a little more. Pushes up onto one elbow.
“What?” She looks at me. “What’s this?”
“A house.”
Her eyes widen. “This is a seven million dollar house.”
“I know.”
“Why are you showing me this right now?”
“I want you to move in with me.” I pause. “Not here. I want us to have something that’s ours from the start.” I nod at the phone. “That one maybe. The location is good. And the kitchen’s been updated.”
She scrolls through the photos, and I watch her face while she looks at it.
She pulls back and looks at the listing again. The number at the top. “Banks. I can’t—I mean, I don’t have—” She stops. “This is a seven million dollar house. Banks, I’m a yoga instructor.” She says it gently, like she doesn’t want to embarrass me for not thinking this through.
“I know what you do, Win.” I keep my voice easy.
I can see the next protest forming, that independent streak she can’t help, so I get there first.
“Win.” I wait until she looks at me. “I’m not asking you to buy it. I’m asking you to live in it.”
She opens her mouth.
“With me,” I add, in case that wasn’t clear.
She closes her mouth. Looks at the listing. Looks at me.
“This room,” she says quietly, gazing down at a photo of a light-filled sunroom at the back of the house.
“I thought it could be your studio.”
She sets the phone down and looks at me, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking, and it’s maybe the longest three seconds of my life.
“Yes,” she says.
I let out a breath. “Yeah?”
“Yes, you idiot.” She’s smiling now, full and warm, and she reaches up and cups my face in her hand. “Yes.”
I kiss her. She makes a sound against my mouth, and her fingers curl into my hair, and I pull her in close, and the house and the studio and everything else can wait.
When I pull back, she’s still smiling up at me.
“I love you,” I say. No lead-up, no reason. It just comes out, easy, the way it does now. I used to be terrified of those words. Not anymore. Not with her.
Her eyes go soft. “I love you too.” She presses her mouth to mine once, quick. “Can we go see it today?”
“Whenever you want.”
“After coffee.”
“Obviously after coffee.”
She’s still smiling when I kiss her again.
It starts slow—my mouth on hers, her fingers sliding up my chest. But when I pull her closer and she comes willingly, swinging her leg over so she’s in my lap, her hands sliding up my chest, I run my palms up her thighs and she shivers.
“Are you sure you want to move in with me?” she breathes against my mouth.
“More than anything.”
She laughs, and I swallow it, my hands finding her waist, her hips, pulling her in closer, and she arches into me, and I forget all about coffee.
“Banks.” My name in her mouth, a little breathless.
“Yeah.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her hair is everywhere, and her eyes are dark, and she’s got that look—the one that used to undo me before I’d admit it. Still undoes me.
I lay her back against the pillows, and she pulls me with her, her hands in my hair, and I take my time with her because I can. Because she’s here, and she said yes, and she’s mine, and I’m not in any rush to be anywhere else for the rest of my life.
I kiss her jaw, her throat, the place below her ear that makes her grip tighten. She sighs—this long, loose exhale, like she’s putting something down—and I feel her relax under me.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur.
“I know.” Her hand moves to my face. “I know you do.”
I look at her for a second. She’s looking back at me with this open, trusting expression.
And I have no idea how I got so freaking lucky.
* * *
We’re fifteen minutes from the house when Rick calls.
I almost let it go to voicemail. Winnie has her feet up on the dashboard, and she’s got the window cracked, and she’s singing along to something I don’t know, and I’m in no rush to interrupt any of that. But it’s Rick, and Rick doesn’t call on Saturdays unless it’s worth picking up.
“Give me a second.” I turn down the music, and she drops her feet, already reading my face.
“Hey.” Rick skips hello, which is his way. “Four years. Nine million. Full no-trade clause. It’s done, Banks. They signed off an hour ago.”
I don’t say anything for a second. Outside, the city moves past the windows, completely indifferent to the fact that I just found out I’m staying.
“You there?” Rick asks.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“They want you. Four more years. I know you’ve been sitting with this for a while, so I wanted to call the second it was official.” He pauses. “You good?”
“I’m good.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Thanks, Rick.”
He pauses. “You sound calm.”
“I am calm.”
“You’re never calm about contract stuff.”
“Things are different now,” I tell him, and I’m looking at Winnie when I say it, and she raises her eyebrows at me like what? and I shake my head like nothing, later.
Rick says he’ll call Monday and hangs up, and I put my phone in the cupholder and turn the music back up.
“Well?” she asks.
“Four more years with the Knights. They signed me.”
She grabs my arm with both hands, her whole face breaking open. “Banks.”
“It’s done.”
“That’s—oh my God, that’s—” She makes a happy sound and leans over and presses her lips to my cheek, and I feel her laugh against my jaw, giddy and warm. “I told you. I told you it would work out.”
“You did.”
“You should listen to me literally always.”
“Yeah.” I turn my hand over, find hers, and hold it. “I’m starting to figure that out.”
She stays tucked against my shoulder for another minute, still smiling, and I drive the rest of the way to the house with her hand in mine.
Winnie starts singing again, picking up right where she left off, like staying is just a given, like of course it worked out, like she never doubted it for a second.
She probably didn’t.