Hearts seem to flutter above her head. “He wants you to have everything you want.”
“He really does.”
Maeve reaches for my arm and squeezes it. “Because you’re what he wants most.”
All I can do is smile, because that is the whole truth.
On Sunday evening, after six hours and fifty minutes in first class, I see Fitz waiting for me on the other side of security. The second I reach him, he wraps his arms around me, and we do that PDA thing we do.
We get in the town car he ordered, and as the driver whisks us into the city, Fitz peppers me with questions about the flight and The Magpie and my flat.
All stuff we talked about on the phone, but he likes to know where it stands and how the details are coming together. He wants to be a part of this change, to be with me as I unwind my life in England for a new one here.
Once we cross into Manhattan, he sweeps his arm out, indicating the city outside the windows. “So, this is the Big Apple, something New Yorkers never call it. What do you think?”
Laughing, I look around, soaking in the sights. “I’m taking it all in for the first time. I haven’t formed an opinion yet.”
He nudges me with his elbow. “C’mon. What are your pros and cons?”
I tap my chin. “I hear it doesn’t rain as much.”
“Also, rumor on the street is New York has great pizza.”
“Yet another benefit.”
“And my accent will stand out and make all my new customers swoon. So, big tips coming my way.”
Fitz runs his hand over the back of my neck. “Told you you’d like it here.”
“I guess the only thing left is to see how nice the view is from your place.”
“The view is epic.”
And he’s not exaggerating. He lives on the twenty-fifth floor of a gorgeous building overlooking Gramercy Park. The city unfurls below us.
Later that night, after we reconnect in our favorite way, I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows, drinking in the flickering lights, the skyscrapers, all the people walking on the streets below. “You have a great view.”
Fitz moves behind me, shaking his head and circling his arms around my waist. “No. We do,” he says, then he kisses my neck, brushing his beard against me in a distracting way.
I say nothing because it still feels so surreal, this mingling of everything. Also, because . . . that beard.
He cups my jaw and turns my face toward him, his eyes intense. “It’s ours, Dean. You know that, right? Everything I have is yours.”
I roll my eyes, not because I doubt him, but because I don’t know what to say. His generosity is wonderful and staggering at times.
“I mean it,” he says insistently. “And you better get used to it. Because I am going to shower my husband with everything.”
He moves in for a kiss. I kiss him back, and when the kiss ends, I stare out the window again, savoring the view of my new city.
Soon, I’ll sell my flat.
I’ll pack up my things.
I’ll say goodbye to my friends and my family.
I’ll fly here for good.
I turn back to Fitz, feeling even more certainty about this choice. “I like it here.”
He pumps a fist. “You’ll love it soon enough.”
“I have no doubt,” I say, my lips curving up in a grin. “It’s our home.”
His eyes gleam. “It is. It’s ours. Yours and mine.”
The next morning, I get him a ring, and then I kiss him on Fifth Avenue with crowds of New Yorkers rushing past us, the city around us, and our life ahead of us.
Also known as . . . and we live happily ever after.
Best month of my life.
It’s February, my team is kicking ass, I’m having a killer season, and my fiancé is about to open his new bar here in New York.
Of course, the month before was damn good too, because . . . Dean.
I could say the same for the one before that.
Hell, every day has been epic since he arrived in town.
Today is another epic day.
After an afternoon workout, I stop by the spot he leased ten blocks from where we live and survey the watering hole.
“It’s so London,” I say, taking in the dark wood, the pool tables, the trivia games, and the TV screens that will surely have his version of football playing.
“Not too shabby?” Dean asks as he pours me a stout, just like he did the night we met.
“It’s awesome,” I say, grabbing a stool at the bar and taking a drink.
Everything about the place feels so very Dean, from the standards playing over the speakers to the name of the place—The Pub.
“It was my dad’s idea,” Dean had said when he decided on the name. “A few days after you left the first time, I was feeling particularly shitty, and he took me to a place just like this. Looked around, said it felt like home. I decided that was what I wanted here in New York.”