Remember When

love with someone, she damn well wanted to be half of a couple.
    "Okay then."
    She rose, got bubble wrap from her shipping supplies. She wrapped the cheap ceramic dog as carefully, as meticulously as she would've wrapped antique crystal. Over layers of bubble wrap, she secured brown shipping paper, then nestled the package into a tissue-lined shopping bag, along with a second item she'd taken from her stock and wrapped.
    When the job was complete, she arranged for the shipping for her final sale of the day, then filed paperwork. At precisely six o'clock, she was at the front door waiting for Max.
    He was fifteen minutes late, but that only gave her time to calm completely.
    He'd barely pulled to the curb when she was walking out, locking the door.
    "You're always on time, right?" he asked her when she got into the car. "Probably more like always five minutes early."
    "That's right."
    "I hardly ever am, exactly on time, that is. Is this going to be a deal with us down the road?"
    "Oh yes. You get this initial honeymoon period where I just flutter my lashes when you show up and don't say a word about your being late. After that, we'll fight about it."
    "Just wanted to check on that. What's in the bag?"
    "A couple of things. Did you have any luck with the key?"
    "That depends on your point of view. I didn't find the lock it fits, but I eliminated several it didn't."
    He drove up her lane, parked behind her car. "How come Henry doesn't zip out his dog door when he hears a car drive up?"
    "How does he know who it is? It could be someone he doesn't want to talk to."
    She got out, waited for him to pop the trunk. And beamed at the bucket of fried chicken.
    "You bought me chicken."
    "Not only, but the makings for hot fudge sundaes." He lifted the two bags. "I thought about shrimp cocktail and pizza, but figured we'd both be sick. So just the Colonel and ice cream for you tonight."
    She set the shopping bag down, threw her arms around his neck and crushed her mouth to his.
    "I can hit up the Colonel every night," he said when he could manage it.
    "It's those secret herbs and spices. They get me every time. I decided I love you."
    She watched the emotion swirl into his eyes. "Yeah?"
    "Yeah. Let's go tell Henry."
    Henry seemed more interested in the chicken, but settled for a quick wrestle and a giant Milk-Bone biscuit while Laine set the table.
    "You can eat that sort of thing on paper towels," Max told her.
    "Not in this house."
    She fancied it up in a way he found sweet and female. Her colorful plates turned the fast-food chicken and tubs of coleslaw into a tidy celebration.
    They had wine and candles and extra-crispy.
    "Would you like to know why I decided I love you?" She waited, enjoying the meal, watching him enjoy it.
    "Because I'm so handsome and charming?"
    "That's why I decided to sleep with you." She cleared the plates. "I decided I might love you because you made me laugh, and you were kind and clever and because when I played the next-month game, you were still there."
    "The next-month game?"
    "I'll explain that later. But I decided I must love you when I started to do something by myself, and stopped. Didn't want to do it by myself. I wanted to do it with you, because when two people make one couple, they do important things, and little things, together. But before I explain all that, I've got a present for you."
    "No kidding?"
    "No, I take presents very seriously." She took the first wrapped item out of her bag. "It's a favorite of mine, so I hope you like it."
    Curious, he ripped the protective brown paper off, then broke into a huge grin. "You're not going to believe this."
    "You have it already?"
    "Nope. My mother does. Happens it's one of her favorites, too."
    It pleased her to hear it. "I imagine she was fond of Maxfield Parrish's work or she wouldn't have named her son after the artist."
    "She has a few of his prints. This one's in her sitting room. What's it called again?"
    "Lady Violetta About to Make Tarts" Laine told him as they both studied the framed print of a pretty woman standing in front of a chest and holding a small silver pitcher.
    "She's pretty hot. Looks a little like you."
    "She does not."
    "She's got red hair."
    "That's not red." Laine tapped a finger against the model's reddish-gold hair, then tugged a lock of her own. "This is red."
    "Either way, I'm going to think of you every time I look at her. Thanks."
    "You're welcome." She took the picture from him and laid it on the kitchen