Page 51 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

The paperwork takes forever—inspections and mortgage applications and negotiations over closing dates. But weeks later, we’re standing in the empty living room with boxes stacked everywhere and two exhausted kids sprawled on the floor.

“I can’t believe we actually live here now,” Tyson says, looking around with satisfaction.

“I can’t believe how much stuff we have,” I reply, eyeing the mountain of boxes labeled “miscellaneous.”

“That’s what happens when you combine two households,” Dex points out. “Turns out I had more kitchen gadgets than I thought.”

“You had fourteen different bottle openers,” Blythe informs him. “I counted.”

“You never know when you might need a backup bottle opener.”

“Or thirteen backups, apparently.”

Moving day chaos aside, it works. Better than I expected, actually. The kids adapt to the new space with typical resilience. Tyson loves his room and the basement practice area. Blythe has already planned thirty different theatrical productions for the backyard “stage.”

And Dex... Dex fits into our daily routine like he was always meant to be there. Making coffee while I pack lunches, helping with homework at the kitchen table, reading bedtime stories with voices that make the kids laugh.

“How are you adjusting?” Elliot asks a month later, as we watch the kids chase each other around the new backyard during a weekend barbecue.

“Better than I thought,” I admit. “There are moments when I can’t believe this is my life. That I get to have this.”

“You deserve it.”

“I’m starting to believe that.”

Across the yard, Dex is explaining something about proper grilling technique to Brody, who’s nodding seriously despite the fact that he’s clearly not paying attention. The kids are playing some elaborate game that involves a lot of running and shouting and seems to have no discernible rules.

Normal. Happy. Home.

“So,” Elliot says casually, “when’s the wedding?”

I nearly choke on my drink. “What wedding?”

“Come on. You moved in together, bought a house, blended families. Wedding’s the next logical step.”

“We haven’t talked about marriage,” I tell her, which isn’t exactly true. We’ve danced around the topic, made oblique references to “someday” and “eventually.” But nothing concrete.

“Why not?”

Good question. “I guess... I’m still getting used to this. To being happy. To not waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“The shoe’s not dropping, Golda. You’re safe now. You’re allowed to plan for the future.”

Before I can respond, Blythe comes running over, grass stains on her knees and twigs in her hair.

“Mom! We need to plan my birthday party! It’s only four months away, but proper theatrical productions require extensive planning!”

“Four months is plenty of time,” I assure her.

“Not for what I have in mind. I want to do ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ but with hockey players instead of fairies!”

“That’s... ambitious.”

“Tyson said he’d help with the sports choreography. And Dex promised to teach everyone how to skate for the winter scene!”

I look at Dex, who shrugs helplessly. “I may have gotten carried away during story time.”

“It’s going to be the best birthday party ever,” Blythe declares.

“Of course it is,” I agree, pulling her onto my lap. “We’ll start planning next weekend.”

As the sun sets and the party winds down, I find myself on the back deck with Dex, watching the kids.

“Good day?” he asks.

“Perfect day.”

“Even with Blythe’s elaborate birthday party demands?”

“Especially with those.” I lean against him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my back. “I love that she feels safe enough to make big plans. That she expects us to be here to help her execute them.”

“We will be.”

“I know. That’s the miracle of it.”

Later, after the kids are in bed and we’re alone in our bedroom—our bedroom, in our house, with our combined sock drawers and shared bathroom counter—I finally bring up Elliot’s question.

“She asked when we’re getting married,” I tell him.

Dex goes still behind me. “What did you tell her?”

“That we haven’t talked about it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I turn to face him, studying his expression in the dim light. “Do you want to get married? Like, actually married, not just living together?”

“Is that a proposal?” he asks, grinning.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never proposed to anyone before.”

“Well, you’re doing great so far. Very romantic, asking while we’re both in our pajamas with toothpaste breath.”

“Shut up,” I laugh, hitting his chest. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He catches my hand, brings it to his lips. “Yes, I want to marry you. I want to legally adopt Tyson and Blythe if they’ll let me. I want to make this official in every way possible.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. Legal adoption. Making him their father officially, not just in practice.

“The kids would have to agree,” I manage. “That’s a big decision for them.”

“I know. But I love them like they’re already mine. Have since almost the beginning.”

“They love you too. But adoption...” I trail off, overwhelmed by the magnitude of it.

“We don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he says gently. “We can talk to them when you’re ready. See how they feel about it.”

“And marriage?”

“Whenever you want. Big wedding, small wedding, courthouse wedding. I don’t care as long as you’re the one in the white dress.”

I kiss him then, pouring everything I can’t quite articulate into it. Love and gratitude and the absolute certainty that this is where I belong.

“Ask me again in six months,” I say when we break apart. “When we’ve survived a full season of living together and Blythe’s birthday extravaganza.”

“Deal. But I’m warning you now—I’m planning to ask in a much more romantic setting than our bedroom.”

“Good to know. I’ll make sure to wear something other than dinosaur pajamas.”

“I like the dinosaur pajamas,” he protests. “They’re very you.”

“You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is. Everything about you is a compliment to my life.”

I fall asleep that night thinking about weddings and adoptions and the future we’re building together. It’s not the life I planned when I was young and thought I knew what happiness looked like. It’s better. Messier and more complicated and absolutely perfect.

In the morning, I wake up to the sound of Dex making pancakes while Blythe provides detailed commentary on proper batter consistency. Tyson’s at the kitchen table reading hockey stats aloud, because apparently that’s his contribution to breakfast conversation.

Normal family chaos. The kind I never thought I’d have again.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Dex says, kissing me as I pour coffee.

“Morning.”

“Sleep well?”

“Best sleep of my life.”

And it’s true. All of it. The sleep, the morning, the life we’ve built together. It’s everything I never dared to hope for and more than I ever thought I deserved.

But I do deserve it. We all do.