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“No such thing as a sword that’s too big.” I work the tip of the sword free from where it’s wedged. “Just a guy who hasn’t taken his time the way he should.”
Her eyes widen and her lower lip softens. And I notice. I notice all the fuck over.
I’m not that interested in proposing marriage right now. What I really want to do is slide that other overall strap off her shoulder, lick the satiny skin I touched earlier, and…
And what? Ivy has done nothing to indicate she’d be up for something casual—if anything, she’s given every indication that she’s the small-town, settle-down type.
Rein it in, Shane.
“Let’s take that from the top.”
I start over again, this time swinging the sword out behind me before I kneel.
Her eyes do another perusal of my torso, and her tongue peeks out—just the tip, so small and quick I doubt the camera even caught it. Though I hope it did. Not that I’m planning to watch the unedited video a time or two or ten thousand tonight. And the earlier one, too—the one where her eyes tell me she likes the idea of me taking my time with her and her lower lip invites me in.
Focus, Shane.
I sweep my hand in front of her, revealing a small black velvet box, open.
And now her eyes come up to my face, and I can see it: genuine surprise. And I feel an echo in my own chest—my pleasure at hers.
The stones form a flower, a round-cut center yellow diamond surrounded by smaller white diamond drops—petals.
I figured she has to wear this damn fake ring for months. She shouldn’t hate it. And what better ring for a gardener than a flower?
“Oh my God, Shane, it’s gorgeous,” she says, pressing her hand to her lush mouth.
I try to ignore how much I like her surprise and delight. I try not to think of other ways I could surprise and delight her, other things I could do that would make her touch her mouth like that.
I try not to think of my fingers on her lips.
Or what else I could press to that soft pinkness, urging her to open for me…
I’m glad I’m kneeling, that I’m angled slightly away from the camera and that viewers’ attention will be on Ivy’s captivated—captivating—face and not on what’s happening in my breeches.
Pull it together, man. Focus.
“Ivy. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
15
Shane
A couple of days later, I video call my dad from my hotel room.
When I went to LA at eighteen, I had this fantasy that my dad and I would be buds. That we’d go to Lakers and Dodgers games and “grab lunch”—that kind of thing.
In practice, our paths only cross when he wants to talk business, so normally I wouldn’t call to update him about a life thing—like getting engaged—but in this case, since there are publicity implications and he hates to be blindsided, I loop him in.
“Shane!” he says.
“Hi, Dad. I’m getting married.”
My dad’s response is a big, scoffing laugh.
“No, I’m serious. The proposal’s gonna be on TikTok and Insta later today.” My publicist worked her magic, editing the video to perfection, and I’ll give her the heads-up to post it as soon as I get off this call.
“Oh, that kind of getting married,” my dad says. “With the big honking finger quotes around it.”
