Less
It's been three days since everything blew up.
Three days since Amanda nearly died.
Three days since I finally told her the truth.
And somehow?
Instead of running from me—she loved me harder.
Still does.
Goddamn, this woman really is a goddess.
Honestly, I don't deserve her.
But that hasn't stopped me from moving every damn thing I own into her condo.
The little blue box burning a hole in my pocket can wait.
For now.
Because before I ask Amanda Perkins to marry me, I want everything else settled.
I want her safe.
Happy.
Secure.
And preferably stuck with me forever.
Which is exactly why I've spent the entire day hauling boxes.
I set the last container of toiletries down in her bathroom and straighten up.
Amanda stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips.
She was wearing one of my old T-shirts when we started, but stripped that off and is now in just a sports bra and the tiniest pair of shorts I have ever seen.
She’s got nothing underneath them either.
Which should be illegal.
“Why'd you bring so much stuff to the storage facility?” she asks.
I grin.
“Cause I told you, your place is bigger, but not big enough.”
She snorts.
“My place is marginally bigger than yours.”
“Yeah, but I also know you love this little one square mile town of Hoboken.”
“Mm, it does have its perks,” she says and bites her lower lip in that way she has that drives me wild.
I walk over and tug her against me.
“But still, we’re gonna need more room eventually, Rusty.”
Her expression softens.
“Yeah, but real estate is nuts around here.”
She worries her lower lip.
“And I don’t think I want to commute from the suburbs right now.”
“Sweetheart, I ain’t talking about the suburbs.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“What then?”
“What about one of those brownstones on Hudson Street?”
Amanda freezes.
Then she laughs.
Actually laughs.
This little brat.
“A brownstone in Hoboken?”
She snorts.
“What'd you do? Rob a bank on the way over?”
I scratch the back of my neck and watch her walk away—mostly because I can’t stop staring at that ass of hers.
Hmm.
Apparently, there are some things about my current job I need to explain.
Like the fact that Sigma's executive compensation package includes Volkov Industries stock.
Like the fact that my investments have done very, very well.
Like the fact that I made over eight million dollars last year alone off my investments.
Not that I give a shit about money.
Never really have.
But if my girl wants a brownstone?
She's getting a brownstone.
Hell, she can have the whole damn block.
Still.
Probably best not to casually mention millions while she's standing there barefoot picking my shirt up off the floor and looking like every fantasy I've ever had come to life.
Yeah, we'll have that conversation later.
And of course, it’s right when my mind is in the gutter that she starts heading toward the front door—away from me.
I frown, of course, and am about to object when someone starts ringing the bell with enough force to wake the dead.
Probably our dinner.
We ordered in since neither of us felt like cooking. Which is totally fine. Hell, she never has to cook if she doesn’t want to.
I am more than willing to cook, order, take her out—whatever.
But what is not fine is my woman is wearing only a thin sports bra and the tiniest pair of shorts on the planet—and she’s about to open the fucking door.
Hell. No.
“Hold on,” I growl.
She blinks.
“What?”
I stride past her.
But not before I slap that gorgeous ass and toss my button-down shirt—the one I hung on the hook with my keys a couple of days ago—at her.
“Put that on.”
Her mouth falls open.
“Alessio!”
“I'll get the door.”
“You are crazy.”
“Crazy about you? You bet that sweet ass, I am.”
She yelps dramatically and catches the shirt while I head to the door.
Look, I know I'm insane.
Sue me.
This woman makes me crazy.
I open the door expecting takeout.
Instead, I get a surprise.
“Oh! Hi. Is Amanda here?”
Brielle.
The costume manager.
Standing there, holding a garment bag.
And beside her—a guy.
Late twenties.
Blond.
At first, he’s smiling. Then he sees me and freezes.
Immediately, I dislike him.
Deeply.
Profoundly.
Probably unfairly.
But still.
Brielle smiles brightly.
“Um, I brought the altered costume for the first scene.”
She points beside her.
“Oh! And this is Nick, my assistant.”
Nick waves.
“Hey, man.”
I stare.
He shifts uncomfortably.
Good.
“Uh…so, is she here?”
Brielle clears her throat.
“Yep,” I reply, but don’t move.
“Well, can we come in?”
I don't smile.
I don't answer.
I just continue evaluating whether Nick is worthy of existing in my hallway.
Then I feel Amanda behind me.
And she pinches my arm.
Hard.
“Let them in, you beast,” she teases.
“Ow.”
“Serves you right.”
“Amanda? Hi!”
Brielle bursts out laughing.
Nick looks relieved.
Amanda slips her arms around my waist from behind and rests her cheek between my shoulder blades.
“Brielle, come in.”
Then she raises her voice.
“And ignore my caveman.”
“Caveman?” I repeat.
“You threw a shirt at me!”
“Worked, didn't it?”
She laughs.
Brielle cackles.
Nick nearly chokes.
And suddenly, something strange hits me.
This.
This right here.
People dropping by.
My girl's laughter.
Domestic chaos.
This is what it feels like to have a real life.
That means maybe I’ve done it—I’ve finally got one. Because she chose me. She gave me this second chance.
And if I’m really lucky, I’m gonna have a future—with her.
Only her.
For so long, I thought I wasn't built for this.
For ordinary happiness.
But standing in Amanda's condo with her arms around me?
The ring in my jacket pocket.
Friends at the door.
And dinner on the way.
I realize something.
This?
This is all I've ever wanted.
And if I have my way—Amanda Perkins is going to be stuck with me for the next fifty years.
Minimum.