His face got soft right before he stated, “Buckle up, baby.”

“I know,” I agreed. “Robin is a whackjob, just the good kind, but this isn’t going to go easy because Lawrie has his own baggage too.”

“Not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

He moved from his place by the bed across the room, past me, to his jacket he’d thrown over the arm of the daybed. He shifted it, dug into it, pulled out some tri-folded papers and walked to me.

He then held them out to me.

I took them but didn’t look at them.

“Itinerary,” he declared. “Shit’s sorted. Even called Conrad. He’s takin’ the kids and in two days, we’re goin’ to the Keys.”

I blinked.

“How big a rock he buy you?” he asked.

“Three and a half carats,” I answered automatically.

“Then prepare to drag your hand around, darlin’, ’cause you know I’ll have to best that shit and do it soundly.”

At that, I dropped the paper, threw myself in his arms, pushing back until we hit bed and went down on it, me bouncing on Mickey.

Then I was all over him.

“Babe, don’t know if the kids are asleep,” he told me (my kids, his were at Rhiannon’s).

“They won’t hear.”

“What if they—?”

I lifted my head, my brows knit and glared at him. “Are you about to whisk me away to the Florida Keys and ask for my hand in marriage?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Then we’re fucking to celebrate.”

His mouth twitched. “Fucking?”

“Fast, hard, rough,” I dipped closer, “and quiet.”

My breath left with the swiftness of him rolling on top of me.

“To be quiet, I gotta do all the work,” he declared. “You get on top, you moan and do it loud.”

That was okay by me.

I grinned.

My guy kissed me.

Then he fucked me.

We were as quiet as we could be.

After, me cleaned up and back in my nightie, Mickey in his pajama bottoms, we were tangled up in the dark in my bed.

“Love you, Mickey Donovan,” I whispered.

“Love you too, soon-to-be-Amelia Donovan,” he whispered back.

Amelia Donovan.

God.

I closed my eyes and pressed deep into his body.

His arms convulsed around me. “Shit, you like that.”

“Happy,” was all I could say.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

I tipped my head back and looked at his face in the shadows. “A flash?”

He slid his hand up my back, over my shoulder to cup my cheek. “No, baby. See, ’bout nine months or so ago, give or take a few weeks, this spitfire brunette moved in across the street and those flashes became history. Now I live life blinded and that is not a bad thing.”

That moved through me, setting me soaring, and I bent my neck and shoved my face in his chest so he wouldn’t see me crying, even in the dark.

He felt it since I was shaking uncontrollably (and might have let out a sniffle) and he gathered me closer.