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“Say yes now, and later, I’ll spend as much time on my knees as you want.”
“It would be utterly remiss of me to leave without giving my fiancée a kiss goodbye.”
“Which isn’t to say you can’t trust me, only that trust is something you earn, and I haven’t earned yours yet,” Gemma added. “In fact, I’m glad you don’t trust me. It shows that you’re discerning, and I like that. But don’t worry. I’ll earn it.”
“I take care of what’s mine, okay?” Gemma’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “And you are mine, aren’t you?”
Tansy (8:21 p.m.): Yeah, effort as in bringing home the occasional bouquet of flowers and doing the dishes because you know that’s my least favorite chore. Tansy (8:21 p.m.): Which in case you didn’t already know, now you do—I hate doing the dishes. Gemma (8:22 p.m.): You’re thinking small, sweetheart. I can do all of that *and* build you a rare books room *and* whisk you away to Al Barbacani Venezia for the best Italian food you’ve ever eaten in your life. It’s not an either/or deal.
Whatever Tansy wanted, it was hers. Gemma was hers. From her assets to her heart to everything in between.
“Tansy, sweetheart, you could wear a trash bag and still outshine every single person in this city.” “A trash bag, huh?” Tansy had lost track of all the unorthodox compliments Gemma had given her. Unorthodox compliments that felt all the more special than some pat, regurgitated you’re so sexy nonsense would have. “A garbage bag,” Gemma confirmed, giving the bottle of glitter one final shake. “I, for one, would still find you dead sexy wearing a, uh, hefty, hefty, heft—
“Still a sap,” she whispered. “Sappiest,” Gemma corrected. “You can call me whatever you want, as long as I get to call myself yours.”