Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
I tug her close and drop a kiss on her forehead. “I love that you want to.”
“I do. I mean it,” she insists.
And part of being a good partner, significant other, or what-have-you, is knowing when it’s important to say yes.
“Okay then.”
But I have a plan too.
A month or so later, Sabrina and I head into the closing for our new home. Yes, we used her down payment, but I told her I’d paid cash for the rest of it. After all, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
When the escrow officer sets down the paperwork, Sabrina’s eyes shine, and she whispers, “It’s our home now.”
“It is,” I say, loving that word, so I say it again. “Ours.”
But then the escrow officer hands her another set of papers, this one with just her name on it.
“Is this for the same home?” Sabrina asks, confused.
The officer shakes her head, barely able to hold in the secret. “It’s not.”
Sabrina frowns, turning to me. “What’s this for, then?”
“I’ll show you,” I say.
Twenty minutes later, I lead a blindfolded Sabrina across the parking lot and to the entrance of Sunnyside Rink, the place where she holds all her skating lessons.
When we reach the door, I lift a hand and undo the blindfold. Sabrina looks up with curious eyes.
“Tyler?” she asks, blinking in confusion. “What’s going on?”
I don’t bother fighting off a smile. “Hank and Marla were ready to retire, so I bought their rink. For you. It’s yours, baby. All yours.”
Her jaw drops. Her hand flies to her mouth, then falls just as quickly. “Are you serious?” Her voice is so high-pitched she sounds like Minnie Mouse.
“Sure am,” I say, then take out a key from my back pocket—a bright, shiny one with the words Skate With Joy engraved on it.
She’s always had a key to this rink. But she’s never had one with her name on it as the owner.
“Try the key. It’s a brand-new one. Just for you.”
She looks at the key, then at the paperwork with this address and her name across the top.
She rolls her lips together, her shoulders trembling, but she steadies herself. She opens the door and steps inside, her eyes wide, glassy with emotion.
“It’s really mine.”
“It’s really yours,” I say.
And then she throws her arms around me and whispers, “Thank you so much. I love you so, so much.”
A beat later, she pulls back, grinning. “Do you want to have that skills competition now?”
“It’s a date.”
And I take her there that weekend—and many, many more.