Especially if I sweet-talked him with a blow job in his office.
The bar was scheduled to open in another month, and it already looked amazing. Lucas was renting an old storefront on Woodward Avenue, which meant it would get a solid after-work crowd, and would also attract people who came downtown for cultural or sporting events. It wouldn’t appeal to the beer crowd, but there were plenty of places already catering to that demographic. The Green Hour was something different—small, dark, intimate, almost a speakeasy vibe. I was working with a designer who loved my idea of Art Nouveau meets industrial chic, and together we’d found elegant Belle Époque-style couches, chairs, and barstools, and we’d purchased vintage artwork for the brick walls. All that contrasted with the rustic floors and tables, the exposed ductwork, metal accents, and lighting fixtures, which were constructed from repurposed gears from bygone factories.
I loved everything about it, but mostly I loved to see Lucas so happy. Even when the bill for shipping the antique bar he’d purchased in France arrived, he’d only needed one night to get drunk and rock back and forth on the floor, wondering if he’d ever get out of debt. By the next night, he was all smiles again, training his bartenders on louching, which was the proper method for serving absinthe. Plans for an opening celebration were well underway, and on our refrigerator was an adorable invitation, designed by Coco, that had gone out to friends, clients, and press.
Our refrigerator. I f**king loved that.
Almost as much as I loved Sunday mornings, when we’d wake up late, have sex, and make brunch together. Then we’d eat out on the balcony in our pajamas, not caring who saw us.
“Want crepes this morning?” Lucas asked, tracing circles on my back. Early afternoon sun slanted in through the shutters, and I was splayed across his body in a post-orgasmic haze, the stars still fading from my vision. He could have suggested having dirt for breakfast, and I’d have sighed just as happily.
“Mmm. Crepes.”
“And bacon?”
“Bacon,” I moaned.
“I think we have mimosa fixings too. Would you like one?”
I sighed again, peeling my sticky cheek off his chest and looking at him suspiciously. “Yes. Is this a dream?”
He reached down and pinched my butt. “It might be. Your ass is too magnificent for real life.”
I looked over my shoulder at it. “It really is.”
He spanked me lightly. “This does feel like a dream sometimes. All of it—a new city, the bar, living with you. Sometimes none of it seems real. And it all happened so fast.”
It had. Lucas had flown in a few times to pick a location and meet with vendors while still teaching, and then he’d moved to Detroit at the end of April. For three and a half months we’d lived together, and it was even better than I’d imagined—at least for me. Lucas wasn’t one to volunteer his feelings about big-picture things, and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t press him, but maybe I could just sort of…check in.
I slipped my hands under my chin. “It’s a good dream though, right? I mean, you’re happy here?”
He ruffled my hair. “Happier than I’ve ever been, I have to admit.”
I kissed his chest and smiled impishly at him. “And you were so scared.”
“I was.”
“And look how nice it is!”
“What? Living together? Seeing your face first thing in the morning and last thing at night? Smelling your hair as I fall asleep? Fucking each other senseless at all hours—and all locations—whenever we want?”
“Yes, that.”
He smiled. “Yes, it is nice. I’m glad I thought of it.”
“I’m pretty sure I thought of it first. But I knew you’d eventually see the light.” Wrapping my arms around his torso, I laid my cheek back on his chest again.
“I don’t know if I’ve seen any light, but I could definitely do this for a long time.” He paused, playing with my hair, letting it slip through his fingers. “Maybe even longer than a long time. On a permanent basis, maybe.”
My next breath got stuck in my lungs and I froze, eyes wide open. What the f**k did that mean?
“Nothing to say?” He tugged on a few strands. “What would you think about that, princess? About making this arrangement permanent.”
Slowly, I lifted my head and looked at him. He was serious.
“I know this is taking you by surprise, but I’ve been thinking about it for a few weeks and now just seemed like a nice moment.”
I opened my mouth, and eventually the words came out. “Is that your idea of…a proposal?”
His crooked grin appeared. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
Scrambling onto my knees, I continued to gape at him, my heart pounding. “I…I…I don’t know whether to say yes and kiss you or say yes and beat you with my pillow for doing it this way! I’m totally unprepared! I’m in shock!”
He shrugged. “You know me—I like to wing it. So that’s a yes either way, right? Whether you hit me with your pillow or not?”
I grabbed my pillow and clubbed him over the head with it. “Yes!”
He laughed and yanked the pillow from my hands before launching himself at me. I toppled over backward, head at the foot of the bed. “Are you sure? I know I’m not what you had in mind for a husband—a scruffy, Half-French, guitar-playing bartender who cuts his own hair.”