Tristan collapses beside me and turns sideways. I have just enough energy to face his sated smile. Thick fingers graze my chin and travel down my neck. They trace my collarbone where some of the breast milk has pooled. With the tips of his fingers, he moves the breast milk over and around my chest in large circles that get tighter and tighter until he lightly pinches my diamond-hard nipple.
“So sexy. Goddamn. You’re a dream, Ligaya.”
“You’re pretty sexy yourself,” I gush.
His hand goes lower and tugs the G-string aside, which we never bothered to remove. He cups my mound and it’s like he’s pushing his spill inside me. It should be weird to enjoy his rough palm against my tender entrance. Instead, I’m loving the sensation of his seed thickening. I’m so aroused and in love, there’s no filter to my thoughts.
“Marry me,” I blurt.
Déjà vu, I know. He did the same thing months ago, and I had walked away because I couldn’t believe he was serious. Now I get it. I couldn’t hold back the words if I tried.
He stares at me for a long time. Suddenly, I’m not sure if my spontaneous proposal wasn’t wrong-footed, after all. Then Tristan stands up and walks away.
Dread makes the hair behind my neck stand. A chill runs down my spine. Isn’t that exactly what I did when he asked me to marry him? I had walked away and accused him of joking around.
What if today’s candid proposal is the wrong move at the wrong time? I’m paralyzed by uncertainty.
Meanwhile, Tristan moves with urgency. He pats his trousers, spreads them on the ground, checks the pockets. “Aha!” he says, half triumph, half relief. His hand closes around something as he climbs over the blankets and lies down beside me.
“Say it again.”
“Marry me?” I whisper past the ball of nerves blocking my airways.
He brushes my hair off my forehead and tilts his head down to capture my gaze.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to ask you exactly that question again,” he says, voice catching.
Tristan opens the velvet box to reveal a brilliant diamond ring. His eyes are glued to my face while he speaks.
“Ligaya Torres, you are the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. When we were younger, you were the person who challenged me, who intrigued me, who drove me nuts.”
“We drove each other nuts,” I agree with a satisfied sigh.
He nods in agreement. Tristan’s smile is so pure, so sincere, I can’t help but swoon.
“Today, you still challenge and intrigue me with your smarts and humor and talent. More than anything, you are the personwhose love gives me purpose. I want to spend my life knowing your beautiful face is the first one I see in the morning and the last one I kiss at night. Our children are blessed to have you as their mother. I would be the luckiest man on earth to have you as my wife.”
There’s no holding back. I kiss him hard and nod and cry while our lips are still connected. When we come up for oxygen, Tristan’s forehead rests against mine.
“I’m gonna take the ring as a yes to my question,” I state giddily.
He chuckles. “Yes, Ligaya. A hundred times yes.”
BONUS EPILOGUE
FOUR YEARS LATER
LIGAYA
It’s fall in Ohio, so naturally the air smells like cinnamon sugar and cow manure. It’s the official perfume of Young’s Dairy Farm. We’ve barely stepped onto the gravel path, and our adorable, slightly feral Olivia is already halfway to the goat pen, waving like she’s Miss America greeting her loyal subjects.
Meanwhile, Orlando is clamped onto me like I’m the last raft on the Titanic. His little arms are welded around my neck, his cheeks mashed against mine, and his hair tickling my nose. He’s no longer a small toddler so his weight against my hip is not exactly comfortable. But I love how affectionate he is. Who needs a straight back when you’ve got a Mama’s boy, am I right?
“Pumpkins first,” Tristan says, snagging Olivia by the hood of her puffy pink vest before scooping her up to sit on his shoulders. She squeals, her light-up sneakers flashing in protest. But once she’s settled on her favorite seat, she sighs contentedly.
Tristan looks like an off-duty lumberjack: flannel rolled at the forearms, beard scruff shadowing his manly jaw. His broad shoulders stretch plaid in ways that should be illegal. Every othermom in this place is pretending not to notice, which only makes their side-eye more obvious.
I don’t bother pretending. He’s mine. I’ve earned the right to shamelessly admire the thunder thighs currently striding toward the pumpkin patch.
