He pressed his fingers against her mouth. “Don’t you dare take it back.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, mortified.
“Look at me.”
She took a deep breath and forced her eyes open. He let his hand fall from her lips and she started babbling. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe I just said that. You must think I’ve lost my mind. Of course we can’t get married. We’ve only been seeing each other for eight months and what would people think and—”
“I would marry you tomorrow,” he said without a hint of hesitation in his voice.
She blinked.
Dimples appeared, and he lifted her onto the desk, laying her out beneath him. “In fact, how about next month? I already had two plane tickets to Paris I was going to surprise you with. Thought you’d like to visit the mecca of all things pastry.”
She stared at him. “You’re taking me to France?”
He pressed a kiss to her parted lips. “No, now I’m marrying you in France. If you’ll have me.”
“Wyatt . . .” Everything inside her went still, quiet, as she wrapped her mind around what he was saying. She saw their future roll out before her. A life filled with shared laughter and dorky movie references and long mornings in bed.
And hot, kinky sex.
Her normal. Their normal.
“Just say yes,” he said softly.
She smiled, remembering his request from prom. And this time the word was even easier to say. “Yes.”
He cradled her cheek in his palm and rocked into her. “Come for me, my love. We’ve got a life to plan.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and dragged him down for a kiss, crying out in bliss as they fell over the edge together.
She’d been wrong. So very wrong.
Reality kicked the shit out of fantasy.