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“Of course you’re supposed to use your bloomin’ tongue.”

Nia Quill, An Exclamation

A fter an enjoyable dinner with Trevor, he asked if I’d like to see his home. So here we are, in an overgrown front garden studying the coziest cottage I’ve ever seen. The graying bench would look amazing painted buttery yellow to match the door and window frames. The brownish stone looks a bit dated and drab, but if I were to whitewash the exterior, that would really revive the place.

Trevor frowns up at the dark patch on the thatch, gone green with mold. “I know it doesn’t look like much now, but after they lay the new roof and I clean up the garden a bit, it’ll be the nicest home on the street.”

“It’s beautiful.” Listen to that burbling brook in the background. It’s like a slice of mountain solace carved into the heart of this bustling city. If I were to close my eyes, I could almost convince myself I’m back in Gravale.

Trevor’s smile lights up his whole face, making him even more handsome. “Would you like to see inside?”

“I would love to.”

He fumbles to pull his keys from his pocket and unlock the latch. The interior is a bit gloomy and smells damp, but the dark walnut floors and counters are immaculate. Having grown up with floors this exact shade, I appreciate how difficult it is to keep them clean. There doesn’t appear to be even a speck of dust on the bookshelves framing the fireplace or on the coffee table. The living and dining room are one with the kitchen, the knobs on the ivory drawers and cabinets shaped like acorns.

I press my thumb against the tiny bumps on the acorn’s cap. “I love these.”

Trevor comes up behind me, bringing along the soft scent of ink and leather, as if he himself has been wrapped inside a book. “They’re my favorite part of the kitchen. My grandmother picked them out when my grandfather built this place.”

Trevor trails a finger along a pull, his nail tapping the little stem at the top. “If the whole house burned to the ground, and I could only save one thing, it would be one of these.”

A tingle starts at my feet, traveling up my legs, the sensation familiar and unwelcome. Even knowing what’s going to happen next, I’m still not prepared for the way my chest constricts, tightening, hardening, as if a boulder has been dropped on my sternum.

It’s only a figure of speech. Stop being dramatic .

I rub idly at my chest, escaping from the kitchen into the lone bedroom on this level, focusing on what is in front of me, not the flashes of painful memories flaring in my traitorous mind.

A four-poster bed. A matching nightstand. A short chest of drawers.

Normal. Safe . Three pieces of furniture stuffed into a small room the way the air feels stuffed into my lungs. I slip into the adjoining bathing room to grip the edge of the claw-foot tub and try to get my breathing under control.

The air smells not of smoke, but of lavender and chamomile from the small bowl of potpourri sitting on the edge of the sink.

I’m fine.

Everything is fine.

I’m safe. Whole. Alive.

Trevor waits in the living room, his soft smile giving no indication that he noticed my brief panic spiral. When he offers to show me the upstairs, I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady.

At the top of the staircase wait two more bedrooms and another bathing room, twice as large as the one downstairs, with an arched window that opens out toward the stream. By the time we return to the living area, the tightness in my chest is no more than a terrible memory.

Trevor shifts his weight from one foot to the other as his fingers tap against his thighs. “Do you…” He clears his throat. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect.” This is the sort of home I’ve always imagined myself in.

He pats a hand against the wall, his expression warm and full of memories as he gazes at the stone. “I know it’s not a castle, but the walls are strong, and the foundation is sturdy.”

“Who said I was looking for a castle?” I came to Rosehill for a husband, not a house.

When he smiles down at me, my chest feels warm and full.

“Do you think… What I mean to say is, can you imagine yourself living here?”

I can picture myself sitting on the slightly worn sofa, darning socks in front of a crackling fire. Cooking dinner in the kitchen while children race up and down the stairs, squealing and laughing. I can imagine sitting by the stream reading while Trevor works in the gardens. It’s a future that makes me feel hopeful.

His parents have both passed and his brother lives in Wrenwich, so they don’t see each other very often. It would be just the two of us, building a life with no expectations but our own.

That makes me happier than I can put into words.

Our hands graze once more when I turn to face him. “That depends.”

His brows arch. “On what?”

“On whether or not you’ll let me change the curtains.”

He blinks at me, the wrinkles on his furrowed brow slowly smoothing with his answering smile. “This home would be yours, Kerris. You could do whatever you want with it—as long as you keep the acorns.”

“I’ll keep the acorns,” I promise.

Trevor inches closer, until the toes of his boots knock against my slippers where they peek from beneath my skirts. His hand lifts, hesitating for the briefest moment before he touches my cheek. “You are unlike any woman I’ve ever met. Most are swayed by Ronan’s title and wealth, but you… You make me feel as if I have a chance at winning your hand.”

He has more than a chance. After today, I’d say Trevor Dillon has a slight lead over the prince. He has been the perfect gentleman—not to mention excellent company. Unlike Ronan with his choice of cafés, Trevor appears honest and forthright in his words and actions.

I’m genuinely looking forward to spending more time with him.

“Would you permit me to take you out again?” he asks.

“I’d be upset if you didn’t.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is perfect.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, then travels back up to my eyes. I wait for him to ask for a kiss, to make some sort of move. After the longest ten seconds of my life, Trevor takes a giant step away from me and clasps my palm for a stiff shake.

He lets go, says he will see me tomorrow, and then practically sprints toward the front door with his head bowed and shoulders fallen.

This just won’t do.

I cannot marry him without kissing him at least once, right?

“Trevor?”

He turns, his eyes widening when he sees me following. I stop right in front of him, cup his cheeks, and press my mouth to his. Our kiss is soft and sweet, and while he doesn’t use his tongue, when I pull back, I feel as giddy as I did after the prince kissed me.

Nia was right. I have been missing out. “I will see you tomorrow.”

He blinks, his eyes hazy and unfocused. “Right. Yes. Um. Right. Tomorrow. Good day, Kerris.”

“Goodbye, Trevor.” Two kisses in two days. Who am I? I press my fingers to my lips as I slip back into the overgrown garden, my smile so wide, my cheeks hurt.

Whom shall I kiss next?