Page 82 of How Dare You
Chapter 34
Devon
It’s your birthday!!! Relax, Dev! You deserve it!
-Notes left in Devon’s planner by her friends, September 20th
This might be the first time I’ve taken my birthday off from work. It’s always seemed unnecessary to me before, but Rhett suggested it and the idea of spending the whole day with him was too good to pass up.
He parks his truck in the driveway of his house, where almost all of the sheet rock is now up, only a few studs still visible. When we near the front door, I see he’s jammed tacky pink flamingos into the dirt on either side of it.
“Was this the design progress you wanted to show me?” I ask, tapping one with my sneaker.
“No,” he laughs. “I had to put them in before you had a chance to object to them.”
“I’m objecting now.”
He opens the newly installed front door. “Too late.”
“I heartily disagree,” I argue as I follow him down the hall towards his bedroom. “We could paint the front door pink, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Really?” he asks, looking over his shoulder as he enters his room. “You’d find a pink door less offensive than classic mid-century lawn decoration?”
When I follow him into the room, my concerns about the flamingos are forgotten. On the wall where I suggested the headboard goes, he’s created an intricate floor-to-ceiling white ash panel. It’s stunning. When I step closer, it’s evident he based it off of a geometric sketch from one of my notebooks. Running my fingers along the grooves and details, my eye catches on the next wall over.
It’s still too soon to paint or put up wallcoverings, but there is a large sample of a wallcovering I never suggested to him, knowing it wouldn’t suit his style, taped on the wall. It’s a textured mix of cream and white arches, interwoven to create a unique basketweave pattern. I glance back and forth between the sample and the wood panel. They coordinate beautifully.
On the ground, there is another sample, this one a hand-knotted rug I’ve admired for years. Also, something I never showed him. Next to the windows, a sample of fabric intended for drapery. Yet another favorite of mine, that he shouldn’t know about. I turn around to ask him about it, but I’m distracted by a couple of wide walnut armchairs that no one else but Rhett McCoy could have created. They’re upholstered in a boucle fabric I love so much I used it for some poufs in my office. In between them is a low table with drawers built underneath. I squat down low to pull one open and find not only the notebooks I left in the trailer, but a whole stack of brand-new ones with paper of varied thicknesses. Some lined, unlined, graph and dotted. In another drawer there are pencils, pens, erasers, everything I’d need to sketch either plans for work or pretty little things that make me smile.
When I look up, he’s standing a few feet from me, hands tucked into his pockets, with the closest thing to a shy smile Rhett McCoy could manage.
“Rhett, this is amazing.” I stand, eyes scanning the room again. “I adore it, but it’s not what you wanted.”
He tilts his head forward. “What I wanted was a place you would adore.”
“Oh.” Unsure what to do with that revelation, I lean back against one of the chairs.
“But this house is your dream. Why would you…” I let my words trail off.
His brow quirks. “The house was never my dream. A woman to love and a family we create together to live in the house, that’s the dream.”
He wants a family with me? Stunned, I can’t find words to respond.
He continues in earnest. “I’m building a home for both of us.”
My heart races as the realization finally settles in. I glance out the picture window at a view he wants to share with me. I could wake up and watch the sunrise with him in this room every day.
Rhett steps closer, taking my hands in his and lowering himself to my level. “Devon, from the moment you stepped foot on this plot of land, it was yours. And from the moment you locked eyes with me in a staring contest, I was yours.” He rubs his thumbs in slow circles across the back of my hands, watching me lovingly as I try to process what this all means.
“You’re mine?” I ask, loving the taste of the words.
“Completely.”
The right words don’t come fast enough, so I twine my fingers in his hair and pull him in for a long, sweet kiss, loading it with all the meaning I can manage.
When we finally pull back, he tucks my hair behind my ear, asking. “So how about it? Will you be mine?”
Resting my forehead against his, I whisper, “I already am.”