Page 242 of You've Got Hate Mail
“Shush.” He looks up at Pip. “Okay. How about this?My love?—”
“My dearest, truest, most foreverest love,” Pip says.
My eyes start to water as the man I love more and more every day takes one of those breaths that he needs when he has to center himself.
“My dearest, truest, most foreverest love,” he starts, but Lav interrupts him.
“You can’t sayforeverest. That’s not a word.”
“You can say anything you want to when you’re my age,” Pip replies.
“But Daddy’s not your age. He’s still old, but notthatold.”
“Can a guy please get a little support practicing a proposal without getting called old and told to use words that aren’t in the dictionary?” He wipes his brow and huffs, then rises.
My heart swells in my chest while the heat in my eyes condenses and slips down my cheeks.
“Youdidaskusfor help,” Pip points out.
“The lady’s not wrong,” Lav says. “You knew what you were getting yourself into.”
“Do you want her to say yes or not?” Heath asks them.
Pip tilts her head and squints at him. “Eh? Do we want her to stay in a juggernaut? That’s not a word to use in a proposal.”
“We want her to say yes, but it wouldn’t be bad for you to sweat a little first,” Lav says.
“Lavender,” I say through a laugh, finally finding my voice.
And my feet.
All three of them spin and look at me as I stride between the rows of new barrels toward the most wonderful man in the universe.
Heath’s eyes go wide, his cheeks pink, and he thrusts the box into his pocket.
Pip’s mouth forms anO, but her eyes take on an amused twinkle.
“Cricket, what are youdoinghere?” Lav squeaks. “Get back to work, lady. We have a winery to open and your job isn’t in the cellar!”
I step around her, stress gone, worries gone, anxiety allpoofas I go up on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around Heath’s neck. “Hi,” I whisper.
He grips me by the waist. “You—you didn’t—you didn’t see anything, did you?”
I’d lie to him, but the tears still leaking down my cheeks and my smile are likely a dead giveaway. “Yes.”
“Yes, you didn’t, or yes, you did?”
I thread my fingers through his hair, falling more and more in love with this gentle giant, this man whoseesme, this man who’s brave and compassionate and tries so hard every day to be everything for everyone.
“Do you know how much I love you?” I ask.
His voice is thick and husky as he studies my eyes. “That’s supposed to be my line.”
“I love you more than the stars and the moons and the planets and the heavens combined.”
“Cricket.”
“I love your heart. I love that you’re my home. I love that you let me be your home.”
