Page 60 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband

"For what?"

"For making him happy. For being patient with his emotional constipation. For caring enough to let him buy you throw pillows." Emma smiles. "I haven't seen him like this since... well, since before everything went to shit. None of us knew how to fix it. And then you came along, and suddenly he's laughing again. Really laughing, not just going through the motions."

"He's pretty amazing," I say softly.

"He is. He's also stubborn and overprotective and has a tendency to bottle up his feelings until they explode." Emma gives me a meaningful look. "But I think you already know that."

"I'm learning."

"Good."

A chill runs through me as I realize Emma has no idea how complicated our situation is. She thinks the biggest challenge will be media attention on our relationship. She doesn't know about the secret marriage, the professional ethics violations, the career-ending potential of what Dax and I are doing.

Emma stands up. "I should probably head to bed too. Early drive tomorrow, and I want to get back before Mom starts calling every hour to check on me."

We say goodnight, and I help Emma get settled in the newly cleaned guest room. She's right—it's completely transformed from the storage disaster it was before. There's a proper bed with new sheets, a cleared dresser, even a small bouquet of flowers on the nightstand.

I find Dax in his bedroom, already under the covers with a book propped on his chest. He looks up when I enter, and the smile that spreads across his face is so warm it makes my chest tight.

"How'd the rest of the interrogation go?" he asks as I change into sleep clothes.

"She likes me."

"Of course, she does. What's not to like?"

"She also thinks you're completely whipped."

"Emma thinks everyone's whipped. She's a romantic." Dax sets his book aside and holds up the covers for me. "Come here."

I slide into bed next to him, and he immediately pulls me against his side. This is still new enough that it makes my pulse skip—the casual intimacy, the assumption that this is where I belong.

"She wants me to come to Thanksgiving," I tell him.

"Do you want to? Come to Thanksgiving, I mean."

"That's months away, Dax."

"So?"

"So that's... that's a long time to plan ahead for a relationship."

"Is it?" His voice is carefully neutral, but I can feel the tension in his body. "Too long?"

I prop myself up on my elbow to look at him. "Is it too long for you?"

"Tessa, I'm planning way further ahead than Thanksgiving."

I want to ask what he means, how far ahead he's planning, what exactly he sees when he imagines our future. But I'm also terrified of the answer.

"Your sister is really great," I say instead.

"She likes you. I can tell."

"How can you tell?"

“Trust me—if she didn’t like you, you’d know. She’s not exactly subtle.”

"How many girls have you brought home to meet Emma?"