Fighting Fate (Fighting #7)(108)
I knock Blake’s hand off my shoulder. “I didn’t need you guys here. I just figured after what I’d seen the last few days, how much you all dig my girl, that you’d want the chance.”
“Hey, until you make this shit official, she’s still my girl.” Blake pokes me in the chest.
“Oh, that reminds me. We’re going house hunting this afternoon.”
Blake seems genuinely shocked. “You tellin’ or askin’?”
I shrug. “Um…both?”
“So this is it, huh? You two are finally done f*cking around, and you’re gonna give this thing a real chance?”
“Absolutely, although there’s no chance about it. I’ve settled for less than all of her, but those days are over.”
Blake’s eyes study the ground, and when he looks up, they’re shining. “I approve, Kill.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “Now let me take you to grab your car so you can take my girl house hunting.”
I head to his Rubicon. “Nice of you, Blake, but I don’t think Layla will be interested in house hunting with me.”
He glares. “Don’t you take Axelle away from me, Kill. I’ll put the hurt down.”
I glare back. “Same to you.”
He groans and hops into the truck. “You two are obnoxious. Damn soul mates of annoyance.”
“Can’t argue that.”
Epilogue
Four months later…
Axelle
“Axelle, don’t.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing hysterically at Killian as he tries, once again, to tell me what to do. I can’t see his eyebrows behind his sunglasses, but the tanned skin of his forehead is pinched in irritation, his lips held in a tight line that only makes me want to kiss him until they soften beneath mine.
“Kill, relax.”
He swivels his head from left to right and back again as if the power of his thoughts could make everyone on this St. Tropez beach disappear before I do something stupid.
“It’s my birthday and we’re in Southern France!” I toss my crocheted beach bag onto the chic lounger the hotel has set up on the beach. When Kill said he was taking me on a trip for my birthday, I expected extravagance. I did not expect a Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous European vacation worthy of rock gods and Hollywood royalty: everything from the travel pods on our first-class flight to hotels where the bed sheets probably cost more than I make in a year. He’s left me wanting for nothing.
Well, except this.
“No.” He practically stomps his flip-flop-clad foot into the sand before he drops to the lounger, pouting. “I’ll lose my shit, Ax, I swear to God.”
He’s adorable all the time, but when his big ole body is slumped over and he’s sulking, he’s irresistible. I step between his open legs and pull his head to my stomach. “Kill…” His arms wrap around me to lock around my thighs. “You’re being ridiculous.” I hold back the giggle that threatens to burst free and run my fingers through his hair until he loosens up. “It’s just a bikini.”
“It’s hardly a bikini.”
“In France you’re supposed to be free with your body. Besides, all the important parts are covered.”
“When you showed it to me this morning, you swore you’d keep your shorts on in public.” The whine in his voice is more than I can handle, and I lose the battle with my laughter.
“Right before you stripped it off me and made love to me on the ice-cold marble countertop.”
He sighs then tilts his head back to look up at me. “Yeah.”
I push his sunglasses off his face to prop them on his head. His eyes are practically glinting with that internal struggle between giving me freedom and protecting me. “I got the bikini specifically for this experience. I mean, when will we ever be in St. Tropez again?”
“I’ll bring you back every year if you promise to keep those shorts on this ass.” He cups and squeezes my backside then groans and drops his forehead to my stomach.
“I didn’t let you train me, grunt through an hour of weight lifting and one-hundred squats a day for the last thirty days, to keep my booty covered up in St. Tropez.”
His shoulders drop in defeat. He knows I’m right. He also knows I’m going to do it anyway, but because I love him, I’ll give him the chance to come to terms with it before I completely piss him off. It’s a routine we’ve fallen into that seems to work well.
“When you become a McCreery, will you start listening to me?”
The mention of my future last name brings my eyes to the single princess-cut diamond set in platinum on my ring finger. He proposed three days ago at the Eiffel Tower, surrounded by candlelight, thanks to the prep work of Fleur and the boys. It was the single most romantic moment of my entire life, and even though the ring has only been on my finger for days, it feels as if it’s part of me.
“You mean will I be a good little obedient wife?” I rake my nails along his scalp, and his answering groan vibrates in his chest. “Not on your life.”
“Fine.” He drops a kiss to my belly and pushes himself back to recline. “But if anyone stares too long, I’m throwing you over my shoulder and locking you in our room until you come to your senses.”