Page 172 of The Wild Card

“Always,” I say.

* * *

He drives us to the cabin, says he packed me an overnight bag and everything.

It’s late by the time we arrive, the sun already setting behind the trees, painting everything gold and orange. The air smells like pine and wood smoke, and when I step out of the truck, I can hear the creek babbling somewhere in the distance.

“What are we doing here?” I ask.

“I wanted to show you something.” He takes my hand and leads me around the back of the cabin, toward the slope that leads down to the lake. There’s still just enough light to hike down to it.

And then I see it.

The dock—the old, weathered dock that was here when he bought the place—has been rebuilt. New boards, sturdy and smooth. And at the end of it, strung between two posts, are fairy lights. Dozens of them, twinkling in the fading light.

There’s a blanket spread on the dock. A bottle of champagne. Two glasses.

“Crew.” My voice comes out strangled. “What is this?”

“I told you I wanted to build something permanent.” He turns to face me, and his hands are shaking slightly. I’ve never seen his hands shake. “Something that was mine. Something no one could take away.”

“The cabin.”

“No. Not just the cabin.” He swallows. “You, Emmie. You’re what I was building toward. You’re the permanent thing. The cabin was just practice.”

I can’t breathe.

“I know I’m not good at this. At words, at emotions, at being the kind of person who deserves someone like you.” He reaches into his pocket. “But I also know that I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

He pulls out a small velvet box.

“Crew—”

“You don’t have to answer now. If, uh, if you’re not ready. But I wanted you to know—” He opens the box, and inside is a ring. Simple. Beautiful. Perfect. “I wanted you to know that I’m all in. For however long you’ll have me. For the rest of our lives, if you’ll let me.”

I’m crying. Fully crying, tears streaming down my face, probably ruining what’s left of my makeup.

“Is that a question?” I manage.

“Emmie Marshall.” He takes a breath. “Will you marry me?”

I look at him—this beautiful, broken, impossibly wonderful man. The one who taught me that love isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up, again and again, even when it’s hard.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, yes, yes.”

His face breaks into a smile—a real one, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and transforms him into someone almost boyish. Then he slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly.

“How did you know my size?”

“I measured your finger while you were sleeping.”

“That’s creepy.”

“That’s thorough.” He pulls me into his arms. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Probably not.”