Dear Life by Meghan Quinn
Prologue
HOLLYN
Two and a half years ago . . .
“Don’t you dare open that door,” Eric calls out, running up behind me.
His arms circle my waist and his beautiful lips press against my cheek. His five o’clock shadow grazes my skin in the most delicious way possible, sending my body into a heated frenzy.
This man.
Leaning forward, he speaks into my ear. “Do you really think I’m going to let my new wife walk into our apartment without carrying her over the threshold?”
Giggling from the kisses he’s peppering up and down my neck, I answer, “You’re so old school. Why don’t we change things up and I’ll carry you across the threshold?”
He stops and pulls away. Lifting an eyebrow in a get real way, he says, “Twigs, do you really think you’re going to carry a big, burly soon-to-be firefighter into the apartment on those twiggy legs of yours? With one lift of my pinky I can have you twirling over my head.”
I cross my arms over my chest in challenge, my wedding dress clinging to my body and my veil clenched in one of my hands. “You don’t think I can carry you into the apartment?”
Eric, the handsome man with the blond hair and dark brown eyes looks me up and down. That classic smirk of his that captured me six months ago gracing his Californian boy face. “Twigs, I know you can’t carry me.”
Twigs. It’s the nickname he’s called me ever since we met at a Denver Broncos game one fateful chilly December afternoon while tailgating with friends. He saw me tossing a football—kid size—with my girls, and I saw him smirking at me from the perch of his tailgate. I will never forget the look of determination and his cocky swagger when he approached me, a Broncos winter hat with a pom-pom on his head, and a painted chest showing off his very impressive and drool-worthy muscles. The Denver wind whipped over the mountains, freezing me in my sweatshirt. I thought he was crazy . . . crazy and sexy as hell. He sweet-talked his way into scoring a date with me, and I immediately became infatuated with his lively spirit and outgoing personality.
We fell hard for each other, so hard that we were engaged months after. Seeing that same determination and cocky swagger now, I know I made the best decision of my life.
Eric is everything.
He brings me out of my shell, makes me strive for more, and encompasses me in a cocoon of safety every single day. I’m a new, invigorated person around him. He brings out the best in me.
Tipping my chin with his finger, he asks, “What’s that look you have on your face?”
Not giving in, because I’m stubborn as hell, I say, “Get on my back.”
He barks a laugh as he throws his head back. “No fucking way, Twigs. I’ll demolish you and since it’s our wedding night, I would rather not spend it in the hospital but rather making love to you.”
“Get on my back,” I say again, ignoring everything he said.
“Hollyn,” his tone becomes serious, “I weigh at least one hundred pounds more than you. I’m not getting on your back.”
I stand my ground. When I make up my mind, there is no changing it, and I won’t even be intimidated by that smirk. “If you plan on getting laid on your wedding night, you will get on my back and let me carry you into our apartment.”
“Hollyn . . .”
“Eric . . .”
It’s a standoff of epic proportions. Firefighter versus student nurse. Brawny and beautiful man versus twiggy girl with vibrant red hair.
Realizing my stubbornness is taking a firm hold on this argument, he runs his hand through his hair, his rolled-up sleeves pulling tight on his forearms and his suspenders swaying at his sides from when he removed them from his shoulders. He’s the picture-perfect man at this moment. This is his first test as a husband. Happy wife equals a happy life. Will he pass the test? Or will he falter?
“You’re not going to drop this, are you?”
“Nope,” I answer, my arms still crossed.
Letting out a long breath, he motions his finger with a twirl and says, “Turn around so I can hop on.”
Such a good man. Such a smart man. No training necessary here.
Needing to rid my hands of everything so I can focus on carrying this gigantic soon-to-be firefighter across the threshold, I take my veil, stand on my tiptoes, and place it in Eric’s hair. I position it properly, making sure it flows over his shoulders perfectly.
“Beautiful,” I joke.
“This is not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.” He catches my smile right before I get into position.
“You’re giving me one serious handy when we get inside.”
I shake my head and look over my shoulder. “No, you’re going to be one hell of a clam digger with that tongue of yours when I successfully carry you into the apartment.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Is that so?”
“Yes, it is. I expect the most supreme amount of licking you have in you. The munch of all munches.”
“And when you fail to carry me into the apartment? What do I get?”
I roll my eyes. “Your precious handy.”
“Uh-uh.” He waggles his finger at me. “I want something more if I’ll be pulling out my best tongue maneuvers. I get head and balls, like mouth on balls.”
“Eck.” I cringe. “Why do men like having their balls in mouths?”
He shrugs. “Feels fucking good, that’s why. Do we have a deal?”
Eyeing him carefully, I pause and then hold my hand out ready to make a bet. This will be no problem at all. I have to walk probably no more than five feet with Eric on my back. Easy! “Deal,” I say with full conviction and confidence in my carrying abilities.
Shaking my hand, he moves his head back and forth in disbelief. “All right, Twigs, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Stop stalling and start stretching your tongue, it’s time to warm up.” I brace myself, creating a solid foundation with my feet firmly planted on the floor, open the door so I can see the end goal, and hold my arms out so I can catch his legs.
In. The. Bag.
“All right, here we go.”
His large hands grip my slight shoulders and I brace myself. Solid foundation, that’s all I need, so I bend my knees, feeling sturdy, and prepare for his weight.
His two-hundred-plus pound weight.
His two-hundred-plus pound weight and giant man body . . .
Oh shit.
The minute he climbs up on my back, there is no hope. I have no foundation, I have no balance, and what I thought were going to be sturdy trunks beneath me are rightfully so-called twigs that quiver with the extra weight.