It was only when Mary flushed with pink relief and pleasure that John saw just how nervous she’d been to show him her purchases. She’d wanted to welcome him without damaging his pride.

He set the travel litter box aside, strode to the kitchen, washed his hands and whirled on Mary, picking her up by the hips and setting her on the kitchen counter. He stepped between her legs, getting tangled up in the skirt of her sundress and loving it.

“I’m serious, Mare.” He nuzzled at her neck, her hair, one cheek against hers. “I’m not exaggerating. You are literally the sweetest person I’ve ever met. I’m never getting over you.”

He hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud.

She stiffened in his arms for just a moment, and he cursed himself for saying too much too fast. Wasn’t I’m never getting over you the same thing as saying I’m going to love you forever? They weren’t there yet. They weren’t even close to—

“Good,” Mary told him fiercely, her fingers tangled in the hair at the crown of his head, pulling him back an inch so she could glare at him. “That works just fine for me.”

And then her fingers were scrabbling at his shirt. He had the feeling that she was trying very hard not to tear any buttons.

Everything in John pulled tight, almost painfully. He was frozen in a block of time, the world spinning on without him.

Good.

She wanted him to love her.

Good.

And it was just so freaking good.

John animated all at once, breath in his chest, his heart racing to catch up with everything it had just missed. He pulled his arms from around her waist, grabbed his white shirt at the center and gave it a good yank. Buttons flew everywhere as he destroyed it, ripped it off his shoulders.

“Your shirt!” she yelped. “You wrecked it!”

“I have others.”

Her hands were palms down in his chest hair, her fingers gripping too hard at his shoulders and collarbones. He loved the way she touched him. Like he could take it. Like there was no breaking him. Good.

“John, you wrecked one of your shirts for me.” When she landed her forehead against his shoulder in what appeared to be overwhelmed reverence, John guessed that at some point she had snooped in his closet and seen how few clothes he actually owned. She must have seen how scrupulously he cared for his wardrobe.

“My birthday is in a month,” he informed her. “You can buy me a new one. Any color you want.”