I think I might cry.
I know exactly what this is.
It hits me all at once—the lights, the flowers, the way Lucy is dabbing at her eyes even though no one’s said anything yet. The way Harris is smiling and looks as if he may cry too. And the woman near the bar?
She’s holding a folder. A manila folder that looks pretty damn official.
My heart stumbles, then takes off like it’s running a sprint I didn’t train for as Maverick moves in front of me, his hand warm as it wraps around mine. I look up at him, already blinking fast, because oh God—I really should’ve worn waterproof mascara.
“This is the best I could do in this short amount of time,” he says softly, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. “I didn’t want to let you leave without knowing exactly where I stand. No games. No halfway promises.”
My throat burns. My lips part, but I can’t speak. Can barely breathe.
He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever been sure of.
“I don’t care if you want to live in the desert, the suburbs, or a yurt in Washington. I just want you. I want to be your husband, your baby daddy, your back-rubber and late-night decaf runner. Forever.”
I might actually melt into a puddle right here. Or scream. Or cry. Probably all three.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a ring box, and flips it open.
And then—without even flinching—he says the words I didn’t know I was waiting for:
“Annabelle, will you marry me?”
Chapter 32
Maverick
Will you marry me?
I’ve never been more nervous in my fucking life. And I’ve played in front of seventy thousand people, with cameras shoved in my face, knowing one wrong move could cost us the game—and my contract.
But this is different.
Obviously.
Annabelle.
And she hasn’t said anything yet.
She’s just staring at me, all wide eyed and teary, like she can’t decide whether to faint or throttle me for doing this in front of witnesses.
God, she’s beautiful.
Her hands are trembling, her chest rising and falling like she just ran a marathon in those heels, and all I want to do is take her face in my hands and promise her I’m not going anywhere.
“I meant it,” I say, now down on one knee. “This isn’t some panic proposal because of the baby. I’d be doing this if you weren’t pregnant. I’d be doing it if we met in a grocery store aisle, because I think you’re incredible and funny and smart and I know that the more time we spend together—you’re going to be my best friend.”
She lets out a sound—half laugh, half sob—and then she nods. A quick, jerky, desperate little nod.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes.”
Relief barrels through me so hard I nearly fall over, but I catch myself and surge to my feet, arms already wrapping around her as she throws hers around my neck.
I kiss her. I don’t care that we have an audience. I kiss her like this is the last chance I’ll ever get, like the sun will never rise again if I don’t.
Someone whistles. Someone claps. Lucy says something that sounds suspiciously like “Finally,” and Harris grunts in agreement.
