His Royal Highness(82)

I flip the light off and close the door behind me.





The walk to Derek’s apartment is a good one. Winter in Georgia means it’s in the low 60s, sunny even though it’s close to dinner time. I have a spring in my step. Butterflies gather around me. Bunnies hop along at my feet—or so I assume. I’m too busy heading into my future to be bothered to look down.

The receptionist inside the exec apartments’ lobby smiles at me as I pass. She knows me now. I belong. I take the elevator up to the top floor, and the scent of roasted garlic and herbs hits me before I open the door and find Derek in the kitchen, making dinner. He’s wearing slacks and a button-down, prim and proper except for the fact that he’s pushed the sleeves to his elbows and there’s a splatter of some kind across the front of his shirt.

He’s leaning down, studying an iPad. Eyes narrowed. Jaw locked.

“Honey! I’m home!” I shout with an exaggerated 1950s flair. I’m the first person in the history of the world to make this joke upon arriving home to a significant other. Still, Derek looks up and smiles, walking over to take the box from me.

I tilt my head up and he responds with a kiss hello.

“Smells really good in here.”

“Ava sent me this recipe,” he says, returning to the kitchen with me on his heels. “She said it’d be a no-brainer.”

“Let me guess…it’s a brainer?”

He throws me a look over his shoulder. “I think she sabotaged me on purpose. There’s something like fifty steps. I already burned the sauce.”

“Well, it still smells good.”

“That’s the chicken in the oven. The sauce was stinking up the kitchen so I threw it in the trash and put the bag down the garbage shoot. Now we’ll be eating our chicken with a little secret ingredient I’d like to call ketchup.”

I laugh.

Burned sauce aside, he’s gone out of his way to give me a warm welcome. There’s cheese and crackers out on the counter. Beside that, two champagne glasses sit, waiting to be filled.

“So is this what I can expect to come home to every day?” I ask as he sets my box down on the island and heads back to check on some sautéing vegetables.

“Barely edible food?” he quips.

I grin before turning for the fridge. Inside, I find the groceries we purchased over the weekend and smile at the memory. A routine I’ve done once a week for the last one thousand weeks turned into something New! and Exciting! with Derek by my side. Strolling those aisles, I found that each of his selections was like a tiny window into his soul.

Celery? Huh…a negative-calorie food. Must be how he maintains those abs.

Sharp cheddar? Interesting choice. I’ve always been more of a mild girl myself.

Double fudge chip ice cream? You dog.

We playfully fought over peanut butter selections. He wanted crunchy. I demanded smooth, sweeping two jars into the cart and moving along before he could protest. In the dairy aisle, he pointed to the whole milk. I nudged my head toward skim. We compromised.

Now, our groceries are arranged in perfect rows. Our yogurt lids kiss, my mild cheese nestled right beside his sharp. In the middle of it all is a brand-new bottle of Dom Perignon. It wasn’t there this morning.

I hold it up in question.

“That’s from Cal.”

I smirk and start to unwrap the foil around the cork. “I told him last week that I was moving in with you officially.”

“I know. It’s all I heard about today. He thinks we should look for a bigger place, something with more room.”

My eyes go wide. “More room? This apartment is massive. There are four bedrooms!” I sweep my hand across the sprawling kitchen as if to further prove my point.

“He thinks we need a big house. He said something like ‘My brood of grandchildren deserve to have a yard where they can run around and get dirty.’”

“Wow. Brood. That sounds like a lot.” I laugh and turn to set the champagne bottle on the counter. My hands find their way around his middle while he stirs the vegetables. My cheek rests against his sturdy back. I feel his muscles ripple while he moves. I inhale deeply, not quite believing my luck.

“What do you think ‘brood’ translates to, roughly?” he asks. “Five?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Think we should start practicing now?”

“Definitely. If we’re aiming for five, we really need to have a strategy.”

With this, he kills the gas to the stove and turns off the oven. I’d assumed we were just playing around. Apparently not. Derek spins, scoops me up so my feet dangle off the ground, and starts walking us over to our bedroom. Yesterday it was his bedroom. Now it’s ours. My bra spills out of the top drawer of the dresser. My book lies flat on the nightstand. He stumbles over some shoes I left out yesterday and we’re headed for an awkward emergency room visit right before we land in a heap on the bed.

“Derek! Now? What about your chicken?”

“It was going to suck anyway. I’m not a good cook.”

He reaches down for my shirt, shimmying it up and over my head while we talk.

“Oh hell.” I sound distraught. “Neither am I. I’ve lived in a dorm without a kitchen for the last few years. I have no practice. We’re doomed!”