"Wait." A terrible thought struck her. "My mother. Did you?—"
"Daisy is currently in Bali." He reached over to take her hand, squeezing gently. "I may have suggested the trip. Along with a generous travel gift card."
"You bribed my mother to leave the country?"
"I prefer to think of it as a strategic investment in our future peace."
She stared at him, emotions warring for dominance—shock, disbelief, indignation at being so thoroughly outmaneuvered, and underneath it all, a bubbling spring of something that felt suspiciously like joy.
"You're insane," she said finally.
"Possibly."
"This is crazy."
"Almost certainly."
"I can't believe you planned all this without telling me."
"To be fair, that's rather the point of a surprise."
The road curved, and suddenly they crested a hill and the landscape opened up before them. A valley stretched below, golden in the winter sunlight, with a tiny village nestled at its heart. She could see a church steeple, a covered bridge over a winding stream, hills rolling away into the distance like a painting.
"What is this place?"
"Little town called Willowmere." He pulled the truck to the side of the road, parking so they could take in the view. "A mostly human community, but they've got a minister who's performed a few monster-human weddings. Very discreet, very welcoming." He turned to face her, taking both her hands in his. "If you want to, I mean. If you're ready."
She looked at him—really looked. At the vulnerability beneath the confidence, the hope carefully held in check, the way his thumbs traced nervous circles on the backs of her hands.
Three months ago, she'd asked for time. Time to be sure. Time to trust. Time to believe that this was real and solid and not just another beautiful thing that would crumble the moment she put her weight on it.
And now, looking at him in the fall light, she realized she was ready.
She'd been ready for weeks, actually. Maybe longer. She just hadn't let herself admit it.
"You really packed me a wedding dress?"
"Winnie Sanderson helped choose it. She said something about 'sartorial destiny,' which I didn't fully understand, but she seemed very confident."
"And Jenny’s actually covering the Jenkins wedding?"
"She has detailed notes. Color-coded, obviously. I may have borrowed your system."
"You borrowed my—" She laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in her chest. "You're completely ridiculous, you know that?"
"I've been told." His voice softened. "Is that a yes?"
She looked out at the valley below, then back at him. At this impossible, wonderful, scheming male who'd played his heart out on a stage for her, who'd sent her mother to Bali, who'd somehow understood that what she needed wasn't a grand wedding with months of planning and drama, but this—a choice made together, a leap of faith, a beginning.
"Yes," she said, and the word felt like sunrise. "Yes, let's get married."
His grin was incandescent. He pulled her across the truck's bench seat, kissing her thoroughly while the fall sunlight poured through the windows and somewhere in the valley below, church bells began to ring.
"I love you," he said against her lips.
"I love you too." She pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes. "But if this wedding dress has a train, we're having words."
"No train. Winnie was very clear about that." He started the truck again, steering them down the winding road toward the village. "She did mention something about 'strategic lace placement,' though."
