Page 140 of Marry Me Not
“Taffin,” I choked out. “I’ve always wanted one of their pieces.”
Something deeply relieved passed over his expression. “They worked around the clock on this for me. I hope I got it right.”
“It's beautiful,” I breathed. "Cosimo, it’s perfect.”
He took the ring out of the box and lifted my hand. “Will you marry me?”
The new Ferraro don sounded a little nervous.
I sucked in a deep breath. “No expiration date this time?”
“I want forever.”
I laughed, and it came out slightly broken. “Good. So do I.”
The tension in his shoulders released. He slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.
He rose to his feet and I reached for him at the same time he reached for me. He lifted me into his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist, and our lips met.
The gallery space, the painting hanging above us, the sound of the workers doing something in the room next door all disappeared.
My world shrank to the grip of his hands at my hips and the way he kissed me like I was something fragile and precious and entirelyhis.
EPILOGUE
COSIMO
1 month later
I stoodover the stove in a pair of boxer briefs and a denim apron, watching the polenta spit angrily in the pan. “I have a feeling we’re going to have to order in. This isn’t looking good.”
Fabiana came up beside me and peered into the pot. “You just need to add a bit more water.”
“How much?”
She shrugged. “Eyeball it.”
This woman.“If you allowed me to use measuring cups, this would be going better,” I grumbled as I moved to the sink. She insisted on making this far more difficult than it needed to be.
“Baking is all about precision, but cooking is an art, my darling.” Her arms slid around my waist from behind, and she pressed her lips to my bare back. Just like that, the irritation drained out of me. She’d developed an uncanny ability to dismantle my darkmoods with one touch. “It can be a great creative outlet. Trust me, you need one of those.”
I held a glass beneath the tap and reached behind me to smack her ass. “I already have one. You think making you come three times in a row doesn’t require creativity?”
A flush spread across her cheeks. “Okay, you might have a point.”
I grinned and returned to the stove and poured in what looked like a perfectly reasonable amount of water. The polenta hissed in protest.
Fabiana tsked. “Too much.”
“You said to eyeball it,” I complained.
“Yes, eyeball it. Not drown it.” She shot me an amused look. “That’s okay. It won’t ruin it if it’s a bit thin.”
“I’m waiting for the moment you demote me to chopping vegetables.”
That tended to happen.
Shortly after Nettle had agreed to marry me for real, we’d started a new tradition. Every Friday night, we stayed home and made dinner together. Most weeks, I was eventually relegated to preparing the salad while Fabiana handled anything that required intuition or the ability to follow useless instructions like “add a splash” or “mix until it looks right”.
