"Tell me again, about what we're going to do when we get out of here…"
"Tell me again."
"Tell you what?"
"You know… what we're going to do when we get to Boston."
The delicate voice lingered innocently, the woman's soft green eyes moving upward. The man above her laughed lightly when her cheeks tinged pink once they met his. At once his breath was stolen from him; she was too gorgeous for words.
The sun was quickly setting and the chilly summer night was quickly drawing near. Out in the distance, shadowed by the nearing night sky, dark clouds rumbled. She tugged the small jacket he had lent her tightly up to her chin, grinning sheepishly. It was like she was a teenager again, the way she fawned over him. How each glance she cast in his direction left her breathless. Her stomach was still doing those crazy flips every time she looked at it. Sitting, basking in the fall of the nearing night, they had talked all evening of their future together. They had devised a plan, of sorts.
His warm voice settled into her as he grinned, "Don't you ever get sick of hearing it?"
"Not when you say it."
He let out a small, pleasant sigh, one hand playing with her soft golden curls, while she played with the fingers of his other, taking them and kissing each affectionately. She kept blushing; it was so cheesy and so cliché that if she was watching herself, she might have gotten sick from the entire scene. Like this was some kind of sappy ending to the hundreds of romances girls dreamed about. It didn't matter though. She had been waiting for the past twenty-eight years of her life for a happy ending; and damn it, she was going to soak it all up.
Preparing for speech, his tongue darted over his pink lips, then looked down at the anticipating green hues staring back up at him, "Well, the plan is," he smiled knowingly, "we're going to get a cottage out in the countryside—not too big, not too small—but enough room for me, you, maybe a few little ones," he winked at her, "and all of your pesky dogs."
"Hey!"
He raised his eyebrow, "Do you want me to tell the story or not?"
Crossing her arms and shortening her smile obediently, the blonde forced her lips to a pout-y silence, "Continue..."
As the young man stretched his back against the bark of the old tree, his eyes settled onto the gently fading horizon, piecing together in his mind the words.
"And if you want, you'd stay home with our little John's and little Torrie's, and I'll find a job somewhere, probably out with my old man. He's talking about handing over his company to me."
"He did not…" the woman shifted a bit to watch him grin excitedly.
"Yes, he did. And with the money we make off of that, there's not gonna be a need for you to be getting out there in the working field."
"John, please don't go all eighteenth-century on me. I'm very able to work." she paused, playfully glaring at him, "My parents didn't exactly lend my any money through college, remember?"
"And you're a very hard worker, Torrie Wilson." His smile was syrupy sweet, mocking her, poking her nose just to annoy her just that extra bit. "Very, very hard indeed."
Torrie rolled her eyes "Don't patronize me, you ass." She swatted his hand away from her face, but his hands moved lower and tickled her sides, making her squeal and scurry away from him.
It wasn't often that she could manage to get him to be remotely serious, but she figured with the day they'd had, she didn't need it all too much. They were on the last day of their honeymoon. Money hadn't allowed them to go anywhere exotic like the Bahamas or Mexico. Torrie was a struggling up and coming clothing designer, while John was in the midst of a promising job in Boston with some construction business. So instead, they opted to rent a small cottage outside of town. One similar to the one John had been story-telling about. Torrie had fallen for it the moment she laid eyes upon the abode. And whatever Torrie wanted, John would give her.
"I would never!" His infectious smile lifted ear to ear. Jumping from his spot, he promptly fled to the retreating form of his new wife, purposely rolling away from him, "Torrie, you're getting my new jacket dirty!"
She held the jacket close to her, scooting down the hill. As it began to grow steeper, she stood, running towards the cottage, sitting nearly twenty yards away. Her feet lagged purposely so he would catch her—she could have easily outran him if that was her purpose; he knew it too. This ploy he noticed too easily, and smiled to himself as she glanced over her shoulder, tossing him a deviously innocent look.
Jumping a small distance off the hill to the ground, he sped up, closing the distance between the two quite quickly. Within a matter of moments he had wrapped his large arms around her, ceasing her movements. She yelped as he spun her around, her back to him, over and over.
"Jesus John, you're gonna make me sick!"
At the time she announced this, John stopped, pulling the two of them to the ground in the process. Laughing until she hit the ground, all she managed was an 'oof' sound, with John clambering atop her with a huge grin. The white t-shirt she was wearing had grown filthy with dirt and grass stains. She had a tendency to be a little obsessive compulsive about dirt. There was no rhyme or reason to her madness, but everyone who knew her, knew the immaculate condition of her home and self. Not even her dogs were allowed in the house unless their little paws were thoroughly cleansed. This dirt problem bothered her immensely most times, so her hand almost when down to dust herself, pouting some. Her new husband was trying to help her overcome this. He, quite frankly, was a guy. And guys got dirty. Either way, she would have to live with a little dirt whether she liked it or not.
John looked at her once, just once, and she stopped. Biting her lip then, she instead simply patted down the front of her shirt. She smiled when he did.
"Atta girl."
Her eyes narrowed somewhat, but he kissed her briefly, obliterating any of those off task thoughts. It was, after all, still their honeymoon. The last day wouldn't be wasted rolling around in the dirt.
John's eyes cast a glance towards the small cottage, and then up at the sky as a low rumble broke through the silence. He heard Torrie sigh underneath him and smirked at the upset look on her face, her eyes scanning the skies. Gently, he grabbed her chin beneath his forefinger and thumb, bringing her focus back to him. A small smile was brought back to her lips. She forced herself up some, but John hadn't decided to move off her yet, so she sat back onto her elbows as he rested against her. The soft, sudden, yet warm breeze felt amazing.
She shut her eyes, bringing one hand up to weave her fingers through his soft brown hair, her voice soft as she spoke. "I can't wait for it."
"For what, Tor?"
"For us."