Chapter 7

“I’d love that.”

He gives my hand a squeeze before he stands up. “You’d better prepare yourself.” He winks.

“For what?”

“You’ll see.” He steps out of the kitchen. “Emery. Maya. Breakfast,” he hollers, and I groan. Oh, great. Not only one, but twoeleven-year-olds. Let the giggling commence.

* * * *

We don’t talk about my declaration until the following Saturday. Ronan and Emery invited me over for a movie on Thursday, and Ronan and I have texted back and forth about nothing in particular every day.

But on Saturday, at ten in the morning on the dot, he knocks on my door. I’ve been awake for hours already—no party for me this weekend either—and he greets me with a smile and hands me a steaming cup of coffee.

“You look surprisingly well rested. No bloodshot eyes. No smelling like a brewery. No grunting, asking what I’m doing here this early. What’s up?”