41. Maddie #2
My brows pull together. “What stop?”
He leans down and kisses me once. Quick. Maddening. Then grins against my mouth. “You’ll see.”
Dean’s “quick stop” turns into a forty-minute drive farther out than I expect. Out of downtown. Out of the constant glass and traffic and noise.
The city slowly starts thinning into quieter roads lined with older trees and tucked away neighborhoods that look like they belong on rich-people Christmas cards. I glance over at him for probably the tenth time.
He just keeps driving with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around mine like this is a completely normal Tuesday.
“Dean.”
He smiles but keeps his eyes on the road. “Mm?”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
I narrow my eyes. “I hate when you do that.”
“No, you don’t.”
He’s annoyingly right. Still. I huff and sink back into the seat. A few more turns later, his truck slows in front of a long black iron gate. The keypad beeps. The gates swing open.
My mouth parts. “Dean…”
He just drives through.
The driveway curves through the most beautiful stretch of yard I have ever seen—big mature trees, soft landscaping, little lantern lights lining the stone path like something out of a Pinterest dream board.
And then the house comes into view.
I actually gasp. It is stunning. White brick. Black trim. Huge front porch. Tall windows. The kind of home that somehow looks elegant and cozy at the same time. Like someone took every picture I have ever saved under someday and dropped it into the middle of this gorgeous private lot.
Dean parks. I don’t move. I just stare. He kills the engine and looks over at me, amusement tugging at his mouth.
“Well?”
I blink at him. “What is this?”
Instead of answering, he climbs out. Rounds the truck. Opens my door. I’m still too stunned to even protest when he leans in, unbuckles my seatbelt for me, and offers me his hand. I take it automatically. He helps me down and starts leading me toward the porch.
“Dean,” I say again, looking around wildly. “What are we doing here?”
He squeezes my hand. “Walking.”
I snort. My eyes scan the massive yard one more time. “No one from work is going to jump out of the bushes, are they?”
We climb the steps and he laughs softly. “No.”
Then he bends and kisses my forehead. “Welcome home, Wife.”
I stop walking. Everything in me stops.
My head jerks toward him. “What?”
But he’s already pushing open the front door.
And gently guiding me inside. The foyer is bright and open and breathtaking.
Dark hardwood floors. A sweeping staircase.
Natural light pouring in from giant windows.
The kind of kitchen I have pinned approximately eight hundred versions of online.
The living room opens into it with massive beams and a fireplace and built-ins and soft neutral everything.
It is elegant but warm. Beautiful without being cold. A home. Not a penthouse. Not a place to crash. A home.
I take three slow steps forward. Turn in a circle. Try to speak. Nothing comes out. My throat closes completely. Emotion hits me so hard it steals every word.
Dean misreads my silence instantly. “Oh shit.”
I turn. His face has gone pale.
“Dean—”
“I messed up.” He runs both hands through his hair. “Baby, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to control your life.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“I just…” He gestures helplessly around us.
“I wanted to give you a wedding gift. I wanted us somewhere safer and quieter and not in that damn penthouse where paparazzi can sit outside all day.” His words start tumbling over each other faster.
“But if you hate it, we’ll find something else.
We can pick together. I shouldn’t have just sprung a whole house on you—”
A laugh bursts out of me. Wet. Teary. Slightly hysterical. Dean stops mid spiral.
I look at him with tears in my eyes and laugh again.
“Wedding gift?” I repeat. He blinks. I throw my hands out. “I didn’t get you anything and you bought me a freaking house!”
His shoulders drop. Relief floods his face so hard it’s almost comical. I’m still laughing when he crosses the room and wraps me up in his arms. Tight. Dean buries his face in my hair.
“All I need is you,” he murmurs.
My heart squeezes. I tilt my face up to him. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I smile and glance around us again. Our house. Holy shit. Then practical reality smacks me. I pull back slightly.
“Wait.” I look up at him. “Did you bring all my stuff here so I can get ready?”
Dean goes oddly still. His expression shifts. Sobers. And I know immediately what he’s thinking. Tyler. Boxes. My apartment.
He shakes his head. “No.”
I blink. “No?”
His hand slides to the back of my neck. “I wasn’t touching your things unless you were there to tell me what got packed.” His thumb brushes my skin. “I wasn’t doing that to you again.”
Emotion punches me square in the chest. This man. This stupid, thoughtful, overprotective man.
I huff out a soft laugh. “Well,” I murmur, glancing toward the door, “at least most of it is still packed.”
Dean grins. I grin back. Then I grab his hand. “Come on, Husband.”
His brows lift. “Where are we going?”
I tug him toward the front door. “To get my stuff.” I look back over my shoulder at the beautiful house one more time and cannot stop smiling. “So we can get ready in our new home.”