Chapter 21

Yes. This is what forever will feel like. I promise.

– Finnegan

Marcella nestles against me while I try not to break the spell. No doubt that love potion worked…but I’m terrified it will wear off before I’m ready. It’s late. A midnight hum buzzes in my ears as she sits beside me in the limo, curled up on the seat, head in my lap. Making sure to apply consistent pressure, I rub her shoulder and flick through photos of the evening in my mind.

She survived three minutes on the haunted path. The second a man with a chainsaw actually did appear, she stabbed her finger at him, barked no , and latched onto my hand. While Mark and Jeff fell in to protect their princess, she marched me back out into the streets, to the cafe, and downed another brownie.

Because I ate a bite of hers the first time.

And she quite entirely required a whole one.

Shortly after that, she told me she was done.

So now we’re here.

Going home.

It feels like I’m trapped in a dream that just escaped the atmosphere of a splendid nightmare.

“Finn?”

My hand stills against her shoulder. “Yes, love?”

“It’s November.”

Breath tightens in my lungs.

November.

Thirty days until the wedding.

Thirty days until I get to see what all the purchases and planning and brief, nonsensical sorts of questions she’s asked me throughout the past weeks add up to.

Thirty days left for her to decide whether or not she wants me to be her husband, or whether she wants me to go back to being just her boss.

Maybe her friend.

Hopefully her friend…

I might be too reliant on playing Stardew Valley with her each weekend to go back to being just her boss . I have chickens that I’ve named. I need to pet them every day. It’s imperative I see a pixel heart rise above their heads even though Brigid insists there’s an auto-petter I can get to avoid the experience.

I’d hire an assistant before letting a robot take care of my sweet baby hens…

Okay, yes. I hear it, the flicker of madness. It’s obvious, but—plainly put—I don’t know what I’d do if I had to give up the world Marcella has shown me.

“Can we go apple picking next weekend?” Marcella murmurs, sleepy. “I want to bake another pie. And make a deconstructed candy apple so it’s not a pain to eat.” She yawns. “I’ve never made funnel cake before… The apple options at that horror story were pitiful…and I did so have my heart set on caramel apple funnel cake.”

I squeeze her arm. “I adore everything you just said.”

The smallest smile eases over her face as she reaches to grasp my hand. “I’ll let you stir the dry ingredients again. Maybe you can peel the apples, too. With one of those fancy machines that makes the skin into one long string. Apple noodle skin snake snacks for me.”

I am going to make her the best apple noodle skin snakes I possibly can.

Practically asleep now, she whispers a curse. “I need to coordinate a time when Mom, Bridge, and Penny can come wedding dress shopping with me. I’m not looking forward to that. But I did find an appropriate boutique relatively close.” She steals my hand completely when she rolls onto her back, looking up at me. “You have no friends, so I’ve asked Mark and Jeff to be your groomsmen.”

“What?”

“They’ve already been fitted for their suits. Would you like Cody to be your best man?”

My mouth opens, but she doesn’t let me respond. “You don’t actually get a choice. Since my two friends and Mom will be my bridesmaids, you need three people on your side, too.”

Of course. That makes perfect sense. How silly of me to think such a question wasn’t rhetorical. “Do you need me to ask him, or have you already?”

“I’ve told Bridge that you will ask him soon. He already knows, though, because he also already has his suit. The asking part is a formality, to solidify your broship.”

Chuckling, I smile, say, “Touching your head,” and make sure my nails reach her scalp when I comb my fingers through her hair.

Her eyes half-lid before they close and she snuggles my arm, pressing my fingers into the crook of her neck.

“Pumpkin?”

“Mm?”

“I could have sworn you weren’t this affectionate.”

She bites my finger.

I think my heart skips a beat on its way into her palm.

Planting a little kiss over the bite mark, she murmurs, “I’m touch averse, which means I’m touch starved. Congratulations.” Her eyes open—deep and dark and hopelessly beautiful. “You now know how to touch me in such a way I don’t feel the primal need to perform an autopsy.”

“That’s—” I clear my throat. “—great. Really great.”

“I had fun tonight.”

“Me, too.”

“In unrelated news, I never want to do this again.” Her eyes narrow. “ Unless you buy all the tickets, and tell them to turn the flashing lights and smoke machines off. Also, confiscate the chainsaws. And maybe everyone can wear nice clothes instead of witchy outfits. It wouldn’t hurt the shops to clean themselves up and opt for more of a cottagecore vibe, either. Turn the whole thing into a fairy butterfly garden for just the two of us.”

“I’ll see if I can contact someone willing to sell the love potion recipe.”

She gasps, sparkling. “You get me.” Her smile erodes, and she scrunches her nose before biting the whole fleshy part of my thumb. “I mean, no you don’t. Shut up.”

I melt into a useless puddle. In a lapse of judgment, I twist her hand into my grip, pull it up to my mouth, and bite her back.

Her eyes widen.

“What?” I murmur against her knuckles.

Streetlight streams in the windows to catch on her blushing cheeks. “Nothing…” She settles, and her eyes close again. “Nothing at all.”

Awful lot of something in that nothing , but I let it slide.

By the time we make it back to her place, it’s past one in the morning. A quiet stillness fills the chilled air, and Marcella’s bundled up in her wings for warmth as she flutters up the steps to the front doors. Breath puffs from her mouth when she yawns. “You have two bodyguards in the car,” she murmurs into the sleepy cold.

My brow arches. I tilt a look back at the car, picture Mark and Jeff chatting beyond the black-out windows. “Yes?”

“Pity.”

“Pity? Why?”

She opens a front door and peeks into the gaping dark lobby. “What would they do all night if I invited you in…”

My lungs constrict so violently I think I might be having a heart attack. Swallowing, hard, I fight to contain myself and say, “My dear…what would we do all night if you invited me in?”

“Sleep.”

This information doesn’t cease my heart’s efforts to beat from my chest.

Lingering in the doorway, Marcella frowns back at me. “If you smile, I’ll stab you, got it?”

I train my expression fully neutral and nod.

She takes a fortifying breath, releases it into the void that is the dark lobby, then mutters, “I’m…scared. Tonight was an absolutely awful decision, and I don’t want to cry myself to sleep with the lights on.”

My lips part.

She’s scared.

She’s scared and she wants me with her.

I’m awestruck, dissolving, happier than I should be, when she lands the final blow: “Besides—” She flicks nonexistent dust off her skirt. “—whether or not I can stand sharing a bed with you is valuable information for the future.”

“We don’t have to share a bed if we get married,” I blurt. “Our bedroom will be large enough to have separate beds. Or, if even that bothers you, you can have your own room.”

“Finn.” She glares at me over her shoulder. “Don’t you think you’re a little too accommodating? What’s the point of getting married if we go on to act like roommates?”

Helpless, I say, “B-because…I love you.”

Heat races up her neck. She cuts her fingers into her hair and digs her nails into her scalp. “Go take care of Mark and Jeff. I’m not walking through this pit of darkness by myself.”

After I let Mark and Jeff know that they can head home for the night, I escort Marcella to her bedroom, take off my jacket, and try not to fall apart when she leaves the bathroom in one of the pairs of pajamas she got from Walmart. She gives me a firm once-over while brushing her teeth, then mutters through the foam, “I don’t think any of my clothes will fit you.” Turning to spit in the sink, she sighs. “I guess you’ll have to sleep in your boxers. Assuming you wear boxers. Anything less than boxers, and I will cry.”

While my brain derails on a blinding image of that experience, I remember a vital detail.

This is my house.

I have a bedroom here.

With clothes in it.

By the time I’ve changed into a pair of flannel pants and a plain t-shirt, Marcella has snuggled herself into the bed with the pillow that was previously on the couch.

“Well,” I murmur, bracing a shoulder against the wall and folding my arms, “isn’t this a momentous occasion?”

Her brow knits, and she points to the foot of the bed. “Guard dogs sleep there.”

Chuckling, I make my way to her bedside.

She tugs the blankets up around her chin as she sinks down. “What are you doing?”

“Goodnight kiss?”

Her eyes search mine as she covers her mouth with the comforter. When her head shakes, I oblige, banishing myself to the other side of the bed. Firmly so. It’s a big bed, so there are roughly two feet of modest space between us.

It is nowhere near large enough to get swimming thoughts out of my head.

Everything in me burns to close the distance. To crush her to my chest. To inhale the scent of her hair with my every breath. I want to let her scald my lungs and tease my flesh with her barest movements.

Instead of doing that, though, I flatten my hand against the clean, cool sheets between us and stare at the canopy above when she uses the remote on her nightstand to turn off the main light.

The room goes pitch.

I hear her shift when she rolls over.

It kills me not knowing whether she’s faced toward or away from me.

“Marcella?”

“What?”

Toward, then. I close my eyes and let out a breath. “Nothing. Goodnight.”

Silent moments pass. Weariness creeps up on me. It has been a long day followed by a long evening. That town really was creepy in all kinds of ways, which was a precedent set well in advance. Why in the world did Marcella want to go at all if she can’t handle scary things to such an extent she’s asked me to stay with her tonight?

I could ask.

The worst she can do is tell me to shut up and go to sleep.

That’s one of the many beautiful things about Marcella. I don’t need to question anything with her. She’ll tell me what she’s thinking without sparing any frills. She is just genuinely simple to be with.

The sheets rustle, then her fingertips graze mine.

I latch onto her hand without any prompting, and murmur, “Yes, love?”

Her swallow echos in the darkness. “You…were too far away to properly protect me from the chainsaw murderer assuredly hiding under the bed right this second.”

I smile. “This is delightfully unexpected behavior on every front.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m demure and feminine and soft. All the time. Without any exceptions.”

She is crushing the life from my hand.

Not that I care.

She wriggles closer, and I don’t know how my heart is going to handle this for much longer.

Her free hand plants on my bare arm, rushes up, and pushes my shirt onto my shoulder. “Wearing short sleeves?” she whispers. “Big mistake.” Her teeth clamp into my bicep.

I can’t stop my laugh or my swear. Unfamiliar feelings go rippling through my veins. “Okay. Okay . What is with all the biting?”

Her lips smack as she nuzzles. “Boyfriends are delicious. I don’t make the rules. Don’t tell me it bothers you?”

“Just wondering if you’re taste testing for when you slow-cook me.”

“I absolutely am doing that. Got a problem with it?” Her foot finds mine. If I’m not mistaken, her toes are very adeptly pulling my flannel pajama pants up my calf. I can only imagine why.

“I don’t have any problems with it. I may like it a little too much, given our pre-marital status at present.”

Her freezing toes burrow under my knee once my pajamas can no longer protect me.

Cupping my free hand to my mouth, I turn my face away from her in an effort to contain my bliss.

I adore her. I adore her. I adore her. I adore her. I adore her.

Her fingers dip beneath my shirt, against my abs, and I have to catch her hand then. Breathless, I whisper, “Please. If you’re coming on to me…say so now.”

Her forehead rests against my shoulder. “It’s dark…” Painfully soft, she says, “I’m…trying to hug you.” A small breath runs against my arm. “For warmth and survival purposes only.”

“Of course. What other purposes are there?”

“I don’t know. Surely not any illicit ones.”

“Surely not.” I tug her arm and trap her in my embrace. It’s not my fault she winds up partially on top of me, her weight indenting itself in my mind for all eternity.

After all.

It’s dark .

Her hand fists in my shirt. “You’re not a very squishy pillow, Finn.”

“Am I more comfortable than the couch?”

“No.”

I sigh, and she rises and falls on top of me. “My apologies. What do I even have to offer to this relationship?”

She plants a kiss to my chest, through my shirt, and—tenderly—says, “Financial security.”

I murmur, “I suppose that’s valuable in this economy.”

“’Tis.”

I’m not entirely sure when our meaningless conversation ceases to be words. Perhaps somewhere around when I recognize that I can feel her heartbeat echoing mine. I lose count of the beats, then I lose my grip on consciousness.

By the time I wake from the dream, I’ve lost feeling in one arm and both my legs, but I haven’t lost her . So it’s a trade-off I’m more than willing to make.