“Then why are you freaked?” he asked.
“Because no way am I falling into the pattern of meatloaf, Letterman and missionary, and with practice, that’s a possibility.”
His head jerked before he asked, “Ally, what?”
“I like meatloaf but it’s boring,” I explained. “I like chicken parmesan way better. Letterman rocks but I’d prefer to do other things when he’s on. And missionary is my fifth most favorite position behind lotus, cowgirl, scissor and doggie.”
It was Ren’s turn to blink.
Then he again burst out laughing.
When he was done laughing, but he was still chuckling, he calmly picked up his fork and speared some sesame chicken before he said to his plate, “So you’re movin’ in.”
Shit.
“Yeah,” I answered, spearing another shrimp.
“Baby?” he called, and I looked at him.
Oh God.
The look on his face was a new look. It corresponded with the tone of his voice earlier that day. And it was so beautiful, my heart skipped a beat and I lost the ability to think.
And speak (mostly).
“We’re never gonna have meatloaf, Letterman and missionary,” he said softly.
“’Kay,” I replied breathily.
“And if you can pare down that five year f**k-a-thon to two or three, I’d appreciate it,” he went on.
“’Kay,” I repeated.
“Though, during that two year f**k-a-thon, you may have one, then two of my rings on your finger.”
Oh shit.
Even me, Ally, Rock Chick, that didn’t make me warm inside.
It made me melty.
“’Kay,” I breathed, and his eyes warmed.
“Just to give you something to look forward to, we’ll stop the f**k-a-thon when we have to, but we’ll resume soon’s we can after you give me healthy babies.”
Oh God.
I felt my eyes get hot.
Ren and I were getting married.
Not now.
But eventually.
Oh.
God.