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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ELLIOT

A t the knock on my front door, Killer lets out a happy bark and spins in a circle on the kitchen floor, jumping up to plant her front paws on my leg.

I laugh at the look on her face that can only be described as thrilled and eager.

“I know, girl; I love her too,” I murmur, giving the chicken on the stove a quick stir then flicking off the heat under the pan and reaching down to scoop up my dog.

Something about saying those words out loud for the first time, even though I’m not saying them to Amelia, has warmth and rightness rushing through me.

And when I open the door and see Amelia standing there, smiling at me, cheeks red from the late-February night, everything inside of me stills and calms, like she is the peace I have been looking for.

“Whatcha got there, Ames?” I ask, grinning at her and leaning against the doorframe.

Her winter coat is tossed over one arm, and she’s wearing the leggings I know she prefers to any kind of pants with buttons and zippers, and a soft green sweater that has the gold flecks in her eyes sparkling bright against the deep brown.

I could look at her face for hours—for days—and never get tired of it.

But what has my attention today is the plant cradled in one arm.

“Brought you a present. Also, you look unbearably sexy leaning against the doorframe like that.” She leans in and kisses me softly, and when it feels like she’s about to pull away, I palm the back of her head, holding her mouth to mine for a longer, far more satisfying kiss.

As my tongue toys with the seam of her lips, she opens for me, sighing into the kiss, and then she laughs against my mouth when Killer whines and lifts her head just enough to get in between Amelia and me.

“Cockblock,” I mutter, placing one last soft kiss at the corner of Amelia’s mouth. She giggles, and the sound is the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.

“Here,” she says, handing me the plant and plucking my dog out of my arms, laughing when Killer licks her face.

“I was chatting with one of the other students in the lab today and I saw this half-dead plant at his desk. He said he inherited it from the grad who had that station before him, and he seemed fine with killing it slowly. I was going to leave it, but then I remembered that I know a guy who has a thing about bringing plants back to life. So…meet Susan.”

She grins at me and shrugs like it’s no big deal while I try and get my roiling emotions under control.

She’s not the first person who’s ever given me a plant that looks like a lost cause.

But she’s the first person who has ever known that taking care of plants is one of the ways I manage my mental health, and something about the combination of that knowledge and her gift has the words I think it’s too early to say bubbling up in my chest.

I clear my throat, reaching for the kind of casual that belongs to weeknight dinner dates at home. “Susan?” I ask, taking her winter coat and setting the plant down on my entryway table to hang the coat in the closet.

She follows the action with her eyes, smiling the whole time. “It will never cease to amaze me that you actually hang coats on matching padded hangers in the hall closet.”

I chuckle. “Where do you hang your coats?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I’ve been to her house.

“I don’t. I just toss them over a chair because I’ll need it again tomorrow. And when I do hang my coats, I definitely don’t use matching hangers. I like that you’re, like, a full-grown adult who has things like matching hangers and an actual set of dishes and matching glasses.”

I pick up the plant with one hand and take her free hand, walking us into the living room. “You don’t have matching glasses because you like to drink out of mugs.”

She glances over into the kitchen that is open to the living room, eyes fixed on the shelf of mugs I’ve been collecting over the past few months since she came back into my life.

“You have mugs too now that don’t match.

And you don’t keep them organized.” She says this with a considering tone as she strokes Killer’s soft fur with one hand, like she’s trying to work something out in her head.

I set the plant down on a tall, slim end table that’s the perfect spot for the new addition and turn to Amelia, wrapping an arm loosely around her waist and cupping her cheek with my free hand, the dog between us. “Does it bother you that I have a weird need to live in freakish organization?”

She shakes her head and leans forward, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

“Definitely not. Sorry, I’m not saying this right.

What I mean is, I like it here. I like my townhouse too, but Gabe bought it and it’s mostly just a place I live.

But here?” She shrugs, glancing around my open concept living room/dining room/kitchen again.

“With your dog and your plants and your matching hangers and the threat of being interrupted by brothers or a potentially psychic grandma at all times of the day and night? This feels like a home. I think maybe…” She breaks off, shaking her head, her cheeks flushing slightly.

“Say it,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss her forehead.

“Say what?”

“Whatever you were about to say that you think it’s maybe too soon to say.”

Amelia huffs out a breath. “I think maybe you’re as spooky as Cece.”

“Nah, I just know you.”

She studies my face. “You really do, don’t you?”

“I do. Now, tell me what you’re thinking.”

She tries to look away, but I grasp her chin to keep her eyes on me. Whatever is in her head feels like maybe more serious than a conversation standing in front of my plant collection with my dog sandwiched between us, but somehow, this feels perfectly us.

She closes her eyes for a second, and when she opens them, they shine with emotion. “Okay, just remember you asked for it.”

“I will always ask you for your thoughts, Mystery Girl. I want as many of them as you’ll give me.” I stroke the back of my hand down her cheek, and she leans into the touch. “I’ll keep them safe, I swear.”

“I know you will. Okay. I was going to say that I think maybe it’s been a long time since I’ve known what home felt like.

When my parents died, Gabe moved back into our childhood house to be with Liv and me, but without my parents, it wasn’t home.

Then I lived in an apartment near Berkeley in college, and I’ve been in Gabe’s townhouse since I moved here a couple of years ago, but none of those places were really mine.

They weren’t homes. But here in this brownstone?

This apartment? I know it’s not my home, but it feels as close to one as I’ve had in a really, really long time.

” She shrugs, a look of embarrassment crossing her face.

“I know it sounds kind of stupid, but like I said, I like it here. I like being here with you.”

I stare into Amelia’s eyes, swallowing down the urge to tell her that this could be her home. That I want it to be. That she could move in right now and share my space and my dog and my ridiculous brothers and my zany grandma.

There’s time for that.

Right now, I pluck Killer out of her arms and set her on the floor, where she makes a beeline for her corner of toys, and I wrap my arms around Amelia, holding her tightly.

She winds her arms around my waist and melts into me, letting out a soft sigh and leaning her head against my chest. She draws circles on my lower back with her fingertips, and the beat of her heart matches mine.

I think I would be wildly happy if I could just hold her for the rest of my life.

“I like being here with you too, Mystery Girl,” I murmur, tangling one hand in her hair and kissing the top of her head.

“My apartment has never been happier than it is with you in it. Now, do you want to explain naming a half dead Philodendron Susan?” The change in subject is mostly to stop me from begging her to move in with me, like, yesterday, and it has the side benefit of making her cackle against my chest. The sound is sunshine.

“A philo-what?”

I lean back so I can see her face. “The plant you brought. It’s a Philodendron. See the heart-shaped leaves?” I point to one of the less unfortunate-looking leaves, and Amelia’s face lights up.

“I brought you a heart-shaped plant?”

I can’t stop the grin that spreads over my face at the delight in her voice. “You sure did.”

“Well, that’s fitting because I feel very heart eyes over you, El.”

“Same goes, Mystery Girl. Same goes. So, give me the name back story.”

She nods, like she’s taking this very seriously. “Okay, so you told me that you name your plants after famous people born in Boston, and I’m not sure if you noticed, but aside from Barbara over there, your plants are all men.”

I consider this and realize she’s right, but before I can say anything, she barrels on.

“And I have to be honest, El, I adore you, but more men is never the answer. So, I gave you Susan, like Susan B. Anthony, one of the most prolific and successful figures of the women’s suffrage movement.

She lived most of her life in upstate New York, but she was born in Adams, Massachusetts.

I know that’s not Boston, but I felt like allowances could be made for our girl here. ”

I swing an arm around her shoulders as we both look at the, frankly, pathetic excuse for a plant. “Ames, I absolutely adore every single inch of you.”

She leans up and plants a kiss on my jaw. “Same goes, my guy. Can you fix her?”

“I can. Someone probably had her in direct sunlight for way too long. She’s basically sunburned. She needs indirect sun, and then I can remove the damaged leaves and stems and re-pot her with new soil. She’ll be good as new.”

“My hero.” Amelia’s tone is full of humor, but the way she snuggles deeper into my side when she says it has me feeling like I want to be that for her.

My nature is to be the I can fix it; I’ll handle all the things guy.

And while I can admit that hasn’t always served me well in the past, I think I could be the one to handle all of Amelia’s things for the rest of my days and be the happiest guy on earth.

“I get to be a hero because I can fix a plant?”

She breaks out of my hold and grins at me. “For that, and also because whatever you’re making for dinner smells amazing, and I’m starving.”

“Forget to eat again today, Mystery Girl?”

“If I say yes, will you get all growly again about how I need to remember to eat?”

“Nah, but I will start doing things like leaving lunch on your desk on the days you’re in my class, and having lunch delivered to the computer lab on the days you’re not.”

She eyes me. “You don’t think that would look suspicious? Me getting special food deliveries every day?”

I shrug. “I’d figure out a way for it not to be. I take care of what’s mine.”

She gives me a sly grin. “Yours?”

I lean in and kiss her, long and slow, until we’re both a little breathless. “Mine,” I say against her lips.

Amelia smiles. “I like being yours. Especially when dinner is involved.”

I take her hand and lead her into the kitchen. “How do you feel about chicken tacos?”

She groans, and the sound is a shot straight to my dick. “I feel incredible about chicken tacos. Do they come with a Diet Pepsi? Because I could really use one.”

I reach into the fridge and grab one of the cold cans and a Dr. Pepper for me. “For you, and you only, I keep my fridge stocked with Pepsi. You have no idea how much ribbing I get from my brothers for it.”

“Thank you for your service,” she laughs, and then laughs harder when I hand her the drink in a purple mug that says Mood Reader on it. “You remembered?”

A few weeks ago, Amelia was complaining that she couldn’t decide what to read since the book she, Hannah, and Jo read for book club with my mom gave her a massive book hangover.

When I was stupid enough to point out the hundreds of unread books on her shelves and more on her Kindle, she gave me an irritated look and grumbled something about being a mood reader and not being in the mood for anything she already had.

I shrug. “Like I said a while back, I remember everything about you.”

She takes a sip of her drink and leans against the kitchen island. “It’s the perfect mug. What else do you remember?”

I lean down and press a kiss to her neck, right below her ear, smiling against her skin when she gasps. “That you love cinnamon rolls from the diner. Got them for dessert.”

She sets down her mug and links her fingers behind my neck. “You are the perfect man. Can we eat dessert first?”

I kiss her nose. “Not a chance.”

She blows a raspberry that has me laughing. “Older men are no fun.”

I yank her against me, letting her feel the way just being near her affects me. “I don’t hear you complaining when this older man knows exactly how to make you scream his name. Now, come eat dinner like a good girl, and then I’ll show you just how much fun I can be with dessert.”

“Fuck,” Amelia mutters, a gleam in her eye. “How fast can you eat?”