Page 194 of The Grump Next Door
“It’s perfect,” I tell him, meaning every word. “Not knowing is very human of you. I’m proud of your emotional growth.”
“I’m working on it.” He looks almost shy saying it.
“I can tell. You haven’t made a Reddit post about this decision, have you?” I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously.
“…no.” The pause is too long.
“Dean.” I can’t help but laugh.
“I made a very small pros and cons list. That’s it.” He’s defensive now, which is adorable.
“Dean.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “We’re having a serious conversation about your future.”
“We’re having a conversation aboutourfuture,” he corrects, and there go my internal organs again, liquefying at the casual way he says “our.” “Which includes decisions about where we live, how we live, whether I want to keep working hundred-hour weeks or maybe… find balance.”
“Balance?” I mock-gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. “Who are you and what have you done with Dean Whitaker?”
“Shut up.” But he’s fighting a smile, that firm mouth lifting at the corner.
“Make me.”
He does. Thoroughly. His mouth claims mine with a certainty that makes my toes curl. When we break apart, Muffin has reclaimed his lap, glaring at me like I’m the other woman.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’d be an amazing partner. But I also believe you’d excel at whatever you choose.” I cup his face, making sure he hears me. He’s quiet and meets my eyes, searching them while my fingers stroke his cheek.
“Even if I chose to quit and become a stay-at-home dog dad?” There’s real curiosity in his voice.
“Especially then.” I nod seriously. “Muffin needs structure.”
He smirks, looking down at the neurotic bundle of fur. “She needs therapy.”
“We all need therapy.” I’m not even joking.
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and stands, pulling me up with him in one smooth motion. “Come on. Let’s go look at the plans for turning the cottage into your office again.”
Muffin follows us to the kitchen, where my sketches are spread across the island: plans for the guest cottage office, ideas for the main house, dreams in architectural form.
“I still think we should knock out this wall,” I say, pointing at the main support beam.
“That’s load-bearing.” He doesn’t even look, just knows.
“You don’t know that.” I’m being difficult on purpose now.
“I literally had an engineer confirm it.” He pulls out the report, proof of his over-preparedness.
“Engineers can be wrong.” I’m grasping at straws, and we both know it.
“Poppy.” Just my name, delivered with patient exasperation.
“Fine. But we’re definitely painting the bedroom.” I concede the wall battle to win the war.
“It’s already painted.” He looks at me like I’ve suggested burning the house down.
“Beige isn’t a color. It’s giving up.” I wrinkle my nose at the thought.
He wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. “What color then?”
“Blue. Deep blue. Like—”
