He holds me there, watching, and his hand rests over my heart like he wants to bring us down together. My hand falls atop his as I slow my breathing.

He groans. “Fucking hell, Marina,” he breathes out. “How does it keep getting better?”

I chuckle and collapse beside him. “I don’t know. But I’m okay with it.”

He leans over, kissing my shoulder and then my lips. “Pretty good argument for moving in, huh?”

An owl hoots in the trees high above us. His smile matches mine at the sound. We’re outside, surrounded by trees, darkness, and soft lights, and nothing could be more perfect.

“The pros list is pretty long and impressive,” I admit, “but I need to think about it.”

A slight twinge of disappointment flashes, though he says, “Of course.”

I curl closer, kissing his chest and shoulder. “Grady, I’ve never felt so loved. That’s enough, right? For tonight?”

He scoff-smiles. “It’s enough tonight or any night. This is all I want. You and me, together.”

I nod, grateful and in a perpetual blush over everything that’s happened. “Should we go inside? Go to bed?”

He shakes his head. “Hell, no. You and me, under the stars.”

“Won’t we get cold?”

“Darling, I’ll keep you warm. I promise.”

I believe him. And I get my wish—naked Marnie in a Tripp Grady Tripp nest.

45. Marnie

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Marnie

Monday morning at the G&G, I’m met with a bewildering surprise. It’s not even eight when I pull up, ready to organize my thoughts for our 10 o’clock all-hands meeting. But despite the early hour, I find not one but all three of my misfits—Wade, Christie, and Roy—already at work and dressed up.

“You fellas look… nice. What’s all this?” I ask, approaching the counter and eyeing their new looks.

Christie’s long gray hair is swept up into a high man-bun, neat and tidy. He’s freshly shaven, wearing lip gloss, and donning his mother’s emerald earrings, which I already know, he only brings out on special occasions. He’s in a silky Bermuda shirt, jeans, and Birkenstocks rather than his usual clogs.

Wade’s improvements are more subtle. His trimmed beard matches his tucked-in plaid button-down and combed-back hair.

Roy has undergone a total makeover. His jeans, dirty t-shirts, and falling-apart sneakers have been replaced with what I call 80s biker couture. His black leather pants, which look entirely uncomfortable, match his jacket, and both are adorned with silver chains and doodads. He wears motorcycle boots, a band t-shirt, tucked in, and has buzzed off the remains of his hair. He’s almost completely bald. He gnaws on a toothpick in his mouth, and I fear he might choke on it.

“What’s wrong, Marnie? It’s not okay for us to make an effort?” Roy huffs.