Hating the rain that made my hair frizzy.
Hating that I missed Lucas Stone.
Sitting at my desk, sifting through too many emails, I decided I needed coffee, not the crap tea everyone around me seemed to drink.
Texting Oliver to let him know I was going on a coffee run, he hopped over to my desk, looking too happy-go-luckyish for a day I classified as Friday, the Shiteenth.
“Actually, I need you to be at your desk in about two minutes. Very important communication being sent out to the staff about…” He trailed off as if stuck in his own head. “Carats.”
“Carrots?”
“Mmhmm.” He nodded curtly. “Carats.”
FreakingCosmoweirdos.I breathed a puff of air out of my mouth. “Okay then. I will sit here at my desk and wait for the all-important staff memo regarding carrots.”
“Carrrrats,” he repeated, as if I were hard of hearing, striking not just one, but all of my patience nerves.
“Right,” I huffed. “Carrots.”
Seriously, if he repeated the word one more fucking time, my hand was ready to slap him.
He sauntered over to his desk across from mine and sat down humming,Can You Feel The Love Tonight.
I wanted to heave.
Minutes later a ping notified me of a new email in my inbox.
“Email for you,” Oliver singsonged.
“Great,” I said under my breath. “Let’s see this memo about carrots, shall we?”
Oliver coughed out, “Carats.”
Ugh.
Inside my inbox was an email from Oliver that said, “Open Now.”
When I did, it was an email forwarded to him from Kat Agassi, Hot Shot magazine that said, “This went live on our site today.”
Curious, I clicked the link.
Then basically died.
The link took me to a spread inHot Shotmagazine, a picture of a handsomely suited-up—God, he looked so delicious—Lucas Stone, posing on bended knee, holding a ring—my ring—and lined up beside the photo was a heart-melting letter,a love letteraddressed to me.
Romancing The Playbook:An Open Love Letter From One of the NFL’s Sexiest Players Proves Romance Isn’t Dead
Dear Macy,
Sixteen years ago, I walked over to your house, conjuring up the nerve to press my knuckles against the door and knock. I must have stood at your door for God knows how long before finally taking a deep breath and knocking.
Even at six years old, I thought you were the prettiest girl I’d laid my eyes on, dazzling me with your missing-front-teeth smile, freckle-crested nose, and golden ponytails.
I asked your father if he’d let you play outside with me and when he said yes, I took your hand in mine, and since that day, I’ve never wanted to let go.
Until I had to.
I’d always hated the cliché saying that suggests if you love someone, set them free. I never put much thought into its significance.
