“Just don’t spread it around that I’m a marshmallow,” he says in a teasing tone. “It’ll kill my image.” “Which image? The one of you secretly sneaking hundred-dollar bills into my widowed neighbor’s mailbox? Or you buying an entire building so little ballerinas can continue to afford their training?” He kisses the top of my head, and I don’t miss the moment he breathes in the scent of my hair. We’re home in each other’s arms. I nuzzle into his strong chest like a little cat. It is a done deal. I’d marry him in five minutes if that were an option. “It’s all for you, Bree.”
