"You can save the serenading for when we send the guests home," I teased, letting out a low, appreciative hum at the warmth of his palm on my skin.

Hands at his hips, I held him close, relishing his familiar weight. "I love you," I said, after a moment. The words seemed a paltry substitute for what I felt. Contentment. Gratitude. Amazement. I lifted a hand to his face, cradling the sharp bone of his jaw in my palm, my thumb brushing gently along the line of his cheekbone. I wished I was an artist. His profile begged to be chiseled in stone.