Page 110 of Trade It All

“I’ll take you.”

I blink. “You will?”

He nods. “I’ll ride withyou to your house.”

My heart does a stupid happy little bounce. Then his eyes get that look. That very specific Dean look that means his brain is already six steps ahead of mine.

“But,” he says slowly, “I need to make a stop first.” He grabs a duffle bag from the counter.

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 undersomedayand 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.”