Page 111 of Trade It All

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. Ahome.

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.”