"Babe, we need to make peace with you being a disaster in the kitchen." "Worst girlfriend ever." On the kitchen floor with the smell of burnt sauce in the air, I dropped to one knee. "How about we ditch the girlfriend title? Marry me?" Her eyes widened, her mouth forming a little O. "Are you—?" I nodded. "Marry me, Frankie. Let's tie this relationship up. Let's make this permanent." She let out a startled, strangled laugh. "Oh, God. But I burnt dinner." "I know." I grinned. "That's why God created takeout menus." "Yes! A million, billion, trillion times yes, yes, yes!"
