"Sit," I said, pointing to the chair beside me.

She narrowed her eyes, mischief dancing in them. “I'm not your dog.”

I paused, letting her words hang in the air for a moment as I slowly set the document in my hand aside. The room was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock and the distant rustle of wind brushing against the tall windows. I turned toward her fully, letting my gaze travel up from her boots, to the curve of her hip, to the face I had memorized like scripture.

“My love,” I began, gently, “light of my eyes, reason my heart beats a little softer when you walk into a room…” I rose from my chair and stepped toward her, voice laced with something between a smile and a sigh. “Would you please do me the kindness of taking a seat?”

Her brow arched, but her lips twitched. Amused.

I leaned in just a little more, lowering my voice to a warm whisper. “I’d rather not tire your pretty legs. Not like this, anyway.”

That earned me a full-blown smile—the kind that started small and spread like sunrise. She took the seat beside me, still wearing that half-skeptical, half-enchanted expression that I adored.

I reached over and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re stubborn,” I murmured, “but you’re also breathtaking, and I’d rather you feel spoiled than sore. I’d carry you, if I could. But I figure letting you sit beside me is a good start.”