Page 119 of Oddly Fine

John looked visibly self-conscious.

“What? No—” he began.

“They always say Canadians are so open-minded!” Beckett raised his hands to mimic putting quotations marks around the last phrase, his tone becoming increasingly sarcastic. “But then you ask for the tiniest favor, and bam!—their true colors show!” He sighed in open disgust, shaking his head and started to stand up.

Many of the patrons were now staring daggers at John, who was now ducking his head with shame beneath their critical looks.

“Okay, listen—”

“You’ll do it?” Beckett asked, his voice rising several octaves, just shy of falsetto. “Oh, thank you!” he said, excitedly. “It’ll only take a few minutes, seriously. The waiter is going to bring our desserts, and I’m gonna pop the question! Oh he’s going to be sooooo surprised!” Beckett started to clap his hands together softly in a show of rapturous delight.

John looked over at Hayes doubtfully.

“Won’t he know something’s up?” he asked. “He for sure saw you talking to me.”

Beckett waved off his concern with another feminine flutter of his right hand.

“Nooo, I told him you were an old friend! It’s why I told you to pretend to know me!”

John nodded thoughtfully and then smiled, which told Beckett he was well and truly roped in on helping him with the video. Holy shit, his wackadoo plan was working!

“Okay, okay, but I need it to be quick, alright?”

“Quick as lightning!” Beckett confirmed with a wink.

“Want to leave me your phone?”

Beckett shook his head.

“Too suspicious if I go back to the table without my phone. Just film with yours and we’ll airdrop it after!” he said, not even pausing to see if John was okay with the plan before standing up and walking away.

Before he headed back to his table, he went to the restroom for a quick pitstop—an absolute necessity after all that champagne—and then swung by the kitchen to intercept their waiter.

Elias, their talented waiter, was delighted to help with his big surprise as Beckett explained the plan. He’d been with his own boyfriend for three years and was looking forward to setting the stage for his own proposal very soon.

Arriving back at their table a few minutes later, Beckett saw John watching him, a bill holder setting in front of him.

“What did you do?” Hayes asked through clenched teeth as he smiled brightly.

Beckett placed a hand over his on the table and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours, sweetheart,” he reassured his boyfriend. “You just enjoy your dessert. Leave the ‘fucking shit up’ part of this to me.”

Hayes could tell, because Beckett saw it in every line of his handsome face, that he was about to get whacked with yet another “what-the-fuck” Beckett moment, which, strangely enough, he’d become increasing fond of.

He merely sighed in defeat, resolved to his fate.

Hayes was ready for anything. He observed Beckett carefully, waiting for the signal—what signal? Who the hell knew—but the one that would herald the start of this bizarre shit show. His imagination was getting away with him. Maybe. Okay, probably not. Imagining anything from a full-fledged gunfight to a goddamned puppet show. Who the heck knew when Beckett was steering the ship? His other half, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease, entirely unconcerned about how this would all shake down.

“Excuse me, sirs,” their waiter said, as he placed a plate in front of Hayes. “Dessert,” he announced without supplying any details.

Hayes gave him a puzzled look at first, then frowned when he didn’t place a similar plate in front of Beckett.

Hayes looked down, and it took a very long moment, for the words written on the plate to register. And when he looked up—well, fuck—

“Nancy,” Beckett began, no longer sitting in front of him, but now kneeling next to his chair, a gold ring Hayes recognized instantly resting on the palm of his outstretched hand. “The last four years have been the most confusing, and the most amazing, of my entire life,” Beckett said, and while Hayes could tell the tears in his eyes were fake, and the theatrics were added for the sake of their rapt audience—the words, well—those were certainly genuine.

“I don’t think a man like me deserves a love like this,” he said with a smile that was definitely real, and not an act. “But I’ve never been one to deny fate so—” he chuckled. “Nancy, Daisy-doo—” he smiled broadly at their inside joke on nicknames. “Will you marry me?”