And now, it’s just me and Kayla, standing in the quiet hush of the parking lot.
Her Mercedes Benz glints under the lights like it knows it doesn’t belong among the gravel, potholes, and my dusty old truck a few rows down.
It’s the only other vehicle left.
We’ve held hands all night, because there were always eyes on us. Friends. Teammates. Her staff.
It was part of the show.
But when the last set of taillights disappeared down the road and the congratulations faded into memory, I let go of her hand.
And I missed it immediately.
I’m not going to say something overdramatic like I felt like a limb was cut off having to drop her hand.
But I missed it.
Kayla raps her long fingers on the hood of her car. Each tap sends out a low, metallic ring that reverberates in my chest.
She gives me a half-smile. “Are we really doing this?”
“Getting married?” I ask, nodding toward her hand. “Ask your ring finger.”
She laughs, and the sound of it sets my insides on fire—makes me want to lean forward and claim her big, gorgeous mouth. See if that spark we felt the other night can burn bigger and brighter.
“The ring is beautiful, Sean,” she says, looking down at her hand with a soft, thoughtful smile, almost like it could feel like hers.
The engagement ring her tool of an ex gave her was gaudy and ornate, and it felt nothing like Kayla. It screamed “Look how rich my fiancé is.”
When I found this one earlier, it felt inadequate. It’s not like a ring could capture her humor or spirit, or—just being honest here—her drop-dead beauty.
But it reminded me of her.
Strong and stunning.
Brave and bold in the face of isolation.
And still able to shine.
“Is it okay … that I asked you like that, I mean? That I asked you at all?”
She lets out a small laugh, and as she ducks her head, her hair falls forward. She puts a hand in it, flipping her mass of waves back. “Yeah. It is. And honestly, thank you. But areyouokay with this? You made that promise?—”
“I feel good about it,” I say, my pulse throbbing too fast in my neck. “It helps us both.”
She cocks her head, looking suspicious but playful. “How does this help you?”
I run my hand over my beard. “I’m the clown who made a public vow never to kiss another woman until she was my wife. Do you know how many old ladies lined up to throw their granddaughters at me after that?”
Her head tips back in a laugh, showing her long, lean throat. “Oh, poor Seany. It must be so hard having women throw themselves at you all day.”
I want to grab her hand and tug her toward me. Wrap my arm around her shoulders and bump our heads together.
And it hits me that if I hadn’t just proposed, I might do just that. I would flirt, because that’s the direction we’ve been headed. But now, what if she thinks I expect something from her? What if she worries that I’m trying to …
Trying to take advantage of her?
My stomach drops like a rock.
