“What heated eyes?” I lick my lips, gaze moving from his face down to the zipper in his navy slacks.

The fact that he got nicely dressed for my family makes me so crazy happy that I can barely contain it. I love him casual and gruff, but this clean-cut side is so sexy, too.

“Gotta learn a better game face, babe.” He laughs playfully. “Maybe you should put on those huge, round bug-style glasses to hide it?”

My jaw drops and eyes widen before we break into laughter. “You’ll never let me live that down, huh?”

“Don’t think so.”

“I’m enjoying tonight, but I can’t wait to move out with you next month.”

He growls low in his throat, “You’ve got no idea.”

“Dessert?” My parents ask, entering the room

I see their faces, and I just know. Slade and I might be opposites, but somehow, we’re just right in all the ways it counts.

“Babe, I want you to see our room.” He moves a few boxes over, eyes twinkling.

Vincent and Eve smile, like they know something I don’t.

“Finally!” I exclaim, clapping my hands together.

He’s kept this bedroom from me since we bought the place. Something about dangerous fumes or toxic chemicals. Whatever it is, he scared me into staying out of it.

He pulls a silver key from his pocket and opens the lock. He takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom. My jaw drops. The walls are painted in a dusty gray. The bed is a beautiful white four-poster, complete with a fluffy white duvet cover and gray throw pillows.

“Did Eve help?” I ask.

Silver candles line the windowsills. The room is soft and Zen-like.

“Nope.”

“Wait.” I take in a breath before practically shrieking, eyes scanning the room. “You did this?” I wonder how he pulled this off.

“Boy Scouts can do all sorts of things. But first, closet.”

He opens the door before flipping on a light, and I scream, jumping up and down in glee. It’s a walk-in with racks for shoes, sections for bags, and rows of hanging space. It’s ten times better than my closet in LA. And, to think, I gave away all those clothes and accessories. Ugh!

“And look. For your platforms and wedges.” He winks, pointing to a shoe rack.

I laugh. “I’ve trained you well, huh?” I’m in awe. “Slade, where are you going to put your—” My gaze drops.

Slade isn’t standing up. He’s on … one knee. My hands fly to cover my mouth. A small black box appears in his hands, tiny inside his large, callous palms.

“The first night I met your father, I spoke to him alone. We not only talked about the ways I was moving forward in my life, but I also told him how I was going through a hard time and dealing with issues post-war. He wasn’t too keen about you being with a man who has PTSD, but once I let him know that I’d do anything to be the man you deserved and how hard I was working toward that goal, he came around.