Page 153 of The Marriage Clause

The driver pulls away from the private airfield and Aria watches the city pass for a minute, then turns toward me. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can always ask me anything."

Her expression says she’s trying not to smile. "You never answered me earlier."

"About what?"

"Where you want to live."

I lean back into the seat. "I already told you. The estate."

"No. You told me where I wanted to live."

"That wasn’t the question."

"It is now."

I look at the woman who painted herself back to life in France and now sits across looking more rested and at ease than I have seen her in the entire seven months I’ve known her.

Then I give her the truth because I’ve never been one to see the point in lying and if I want to build a life with her, I’m going to have to share more of myself than I ever have with anyone else.

"I want to live wherever this still feels like us when work starts again."

I continue before she can say something that makes this harder. "The estate gives us a better shot at that."

"So you’re thinking strategically."

"I’m always thinking strategically."

"Even about me?"

I turn to look at her, making sure she hears the words. "Especially about you."

She goes quiet at that as if she’s still not grasping that I’m trying to make her my priority.

Then she says, "That sounds like a lot of pressure."

"It’s not a flaw in this case. High stakes aren’t always bad."

"No," she says softly. "I guess they’re not."

The rest of the drive passes as she stares out the window and I respond back to emails. As much as I want to stay in this moment with her, I still have an entire company counting on me.

Then the compound gates open and we’re home.

Though it’s the first time in my life I can truthfully say anywhere has felt like home, and it’s only because I’m bringing her here. She’s what makes anywhere feel like home.

The waterfront stretches out silver-blue beneath the low Seattle sky. The slate paths are still a little damp from an earlier morning rain, I assume. The other seven houses on the estate rise where they always have, each one exactly where memory left it.

Colston’s closest to the water.

Archer’s half-hidden in the trees.

Everly’s glass monument to ego and event planning.

And my house at the center.

The driver turns toward it and slows. The front door opens before we stop and then Everly appears, stepping out the front door. I should have figured she’d be the head of the greeting committee when we got here.