Page 55 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

“Hey, you’re on the wrong side, la mia fiamma .”

I turn to find Dom leaning against the fence that splits our yard from Ryan’s. Still getting used to saying our , but it might be my new favorite.

Right up there with the way he brings me coffee every morning. His barista skills have come a long way since that clumsy beach attempt.

And his hugs. He doesn’t half-ass them. He commits, wrapping me up until I’m boneless. I never imagined the day I’d crave them, but here we are.

Okay, so I’ve got a lot of favorites now.

At the top of the list is him .

“What’re you doing over there?” he calls, and I head toward him.

I skip the gate, meeting him on the other side of the black posts.

As soon as I’m close enough, he cups my face.

His hands are warm despite the October chill, and when he kisses me, I hum—add his mouth to the list. I’ve kissed it nearly every day since we’ve been home and still haven’t gotten tired of it.

And that’s what this feels like. What we feel like. Home.

Turns out I know my style after all, though it’s not as straightforward as minimalist or cottagecore.

It’s throw pillows from IKEA—several trips’ worth.

The new couch where I’ve straddled Dom’s lap and fallen asleep on his shoulder.

The kitchen gadgets he keeps stocking because he knows how much I love baking in the chef-level space.

Some people measure love by years or milestones; mine’s by how many times you can survive, even enjoy, an overcrowded home store. We haven’t hit the limit yet.

“Hi,” I murmur against his mouth. “Do I get to know what you were up to this morning yet?”

He’d tossed and turned most of the night, which wasn’t like him. I figured a two a.m. round of sex might finally knock him out until noon on his only day off, but no such luck. He was gone before sunrise, pressing a kiss to my lips and promising he’d be back with a surprise.

That crooked smile, the one where the left side lifts higher than the right, spreads across his face. “Yep. It’s time.”

Before I can react, he grabs my waist and lifts me over the fence.

A squeal escapes, but I cut it short, hoping I haven’t woken any neighbors trying to sleep late on a Sunday.

As soon as my feet hit the ground, he pulls me in, one hand cradling the back of my skull, my face pressed against the soft fabric of his hoodie.

He only lets go to lace our fingers together.

“Come with me.” He leads me toward the garage, where the tailgate of his Range Rover is open, filled with flats of flowers. I trail my hand over them, only to realize they’re all the same.

Hellebores.

I still have the first one he gave me—okay, the second—dried and tucked into a ziplock bag in my dresser.

“One wasn’t enough? You figured you’d need a field of them to get rid of me?” I tease.

“I’m never getting rid of you, baby.” His eyes soften as he watches me. “I thought we could plant them in the beds. They’re kind of our flower now, right?”

“I guess they are.” I hook a finger in the pocket of his hoodie, tugging him a little closer. “This is how you want to spend your one day off? Gardening?”

“Yep. Can’t think of a better way to spend it.”

“All right. I didn’t know you could plant this late in the season.”

“They bloom in winter, remember? Don’t worry, I did my research. They’ll survive. Thrive, even.”

It sounds like he’s talking about more than flowers. But all I say is, “I believe you.”

“I’ll bring these over. You take this.” He passes me a paper bag stuffed with gardening tools and gloves.

“I can carry more than this tiny bag.”

“But I don’t want you to.” He brushes a quick kiss against my lips, dismissing the protest, and I head for the front yard where garden beds frame the steps. I crouch to pull on a pair of the gloves.

By the time I’ve picked a spot and started loosening the soil with a trowel, he’s hauled the plants from the car in two trips.

“Have I told you how much I love you?” he asks, kneeling beside me.

“A couple of times.” I smile.

By the time we’re down to the last pot, my hair’s twisted into a messy bun, my jeans are stained with grass and dirt, and my cheeks ache from smiling.

It’s one of those perfect days—the kind where the sun is shining, autumn leaves scatter the ground, and a cool breeze keeps the low seventies from feeling too warm.

Lately I’ve been trying to soak in days like this, to tip the scale in my favor when the hard ones come.

This one belongs in the record books.

“Hey, can you grab me that fertilizer?” Dom tips his chin toward the small bag of plant food he dropped a few feet away.

I stand, brushing off my jeans. I’ve barely picked up the bag when it slips from my hand and thuds back to the ground—because when I turn, Dom isn’t where I left him. He’s facing me, the freshly planted bed of hellebores at his back, down on one knee with a small jewelry box in his hand.

“Mia,” he starts, and my eyes sting before he gets the next word out.

I move without thinking, sinking down in front of him and looping my arms around his neck. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” I breathe against his ear.

“Trying to.”

His smile curves against my cheek before he turns his head and kisses me.

I draw back just enough to stand, though I cling to his hands.

“Mia.” His eyes are soft and glassy, just like mine. “You don’t just make me happy. You make me better. A better man. A better friend. Hell, even a better hockey player. If the last month’s any indication, my goals this season are going to hit thirty easy.”

My head tips back as a laugh escapes, half sob, all happiness. When I meet his gaze again, he’s smiling up at me.

“A few months ago we talked about August. How everything can fall apart in days, weeks, months, or years. But the thing is, tomorrows are never promised. And I want to spend every single one I get with you.

“I spent four years knowing you without ever really seeing you.” His voice is steady and sure. “July brought me you. August brought me love. September brought us home. And October… I’m hoping it brings us forever.”

Hiccupping sobs break free, because that’s all I’ve got.

“Will you marry me, Mia Madonna Matthews?”

I’m nodding before he finishes. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

I sink into the dirt in front of him once again, fresh stains joining the ones already on my knees. My lips find his, curved into a smile.

“You didn’t even see the ring,” he murmurs against my mouth.

He’s right. I couldn’t care less what it looks like, only that he wants to put it on me. That he chooses me. Our love may have come on like a wildfire, but I know it will keep burning long after my last breath. I’ve never been more certain of anything.

When I ease back, my gaze finally drops to the box in his hand.

A square diamond—though I couldn’t tell you the cut—flanked by two navy sapphires.

And I take it back, I do care. Because nestled in the worn blue velvet is a ring I’ve only ever seen in photographs, or back when I was a kid sneaking into Dad’s desk to peek at it.

My mother’s ring.

“Where’d you get this?” My voice breaks.

“Remember when we picked up some of your stuff? And I told your dad I’d drop off tickets for opening day…”

I nod through fresh tears.

“Well, when I dropped off the tickets, I asked for his blessing. He gave it to me, along with her ring. Said she wanted you to have it.”

“It’s perfect .” I swallow around the lump in my throat.

He slips the ring onto my finger, and I stare at it gleaming in the morning sun before lifting my gaze back to him.

Some little girls dream about this moment. I never did. Never thought I’d end up here. But God, how thankful I am—for this love, for being seen for all I am and all I’m not. For him.

“We’re gonna get married.” The words spill out, full of happy disbelief.

Dom shoots up, scooping me into a spin. “Hell yeah, we are.”