Page 9 of Never Enough

I turn the idea over in my mind, looking for flaws in the logic. Besides the obvious flaw that Henry and I are so poorly matched. But there’s no way around that. “So, where did we go on this romantic getaway?

He's quiet for a beat. “Somewhere people won't ask to see photos.”

“So not Paris.”

“Not Paris.”

“Not Vegas?”

“We're not Vegas people.”

“You're not Vegas people. I could be Vegas people. You don't know.”

He gives me a look that is both perfectly flat and deeply communicative. “Gracie, you go to bed at eight-thirty, and your idea of a wild Friday night is a new episode of a baking competition and a glass of Riesling.”

I wince. How does he know all of that? “I’m a baker, we go to bed early because we have to be up early.”

“I could,” I insist.

“You brought a book to Kelsie and Ethan's joint bachelorette/bachelor party.”

I shrug. “It was a good book.”

“It was a book. At a bachelor party. In a bar.”

“The music was too loud to talk, and I wasn't going to just sit there⁠—”

“We're not saying Vegas.”

“Fine. Somewhere small. Somewhere quiet.” I think. “A coast? We drove down to the coast and did it at a little courthouse. Or a little chapel. Somewhere in a town nobody's heard of.”

“That works.”

“And we can't give a specific name because it was spontaneous and romantic and we were caught up in the moment.” I wave a hand vaguely. “All very swept-away and impulsive.”

“You've never been impulsive in your life.”

“People don't know that.”

“Everyone knows that. You meal prep on Sundays. You have a color-coded calendar on your refrigerator. You once made a spreadsheet to decide which streaming service to subscribe to.”

“That spreadsheet saves me eleven dollars a month.”

“My point stands.”

I cross my arms. “Maybe falling for you made me impulsive. Maybe you're so devastatingly attractive that I abandoned all rational thought and eloped with you in a tiny chapel in a town whose name I can't remember because I was so overwhelmed by love and hormones and your—your—” I gesture vaguely at the general vicinity of his everything. “Whatever this is.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “My whatever-this-is?”

“Don't let it go to your head.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

We ride in silence for a moment. The road curves past the Henderson place—their longhorns are out, clustered near the fence like they're holding a staff meeting—and then straightens again toward the stretch of pecan trees that marks the last half mile before my house.

Before my house, where I'll be packing a bag. To move into his house. Because we're married. Because we're selling it.

My stomach does something complicated.