Page 132 of Robbin’ the Rich

Micah handed me my coffee and kissed my temple. “Presents?”

“Isn't my presence enough?”

“No.”

“Rude.”

We settled onto the floor beside the tree.

He loved what I got him, which was good because tracking down the signed edition had involved three months, two independent bookstores, and a frankly unreasonable amount of money. I had just finished basking in my victory when he reached behind the tree.

“I have one more.”

“You already got me presents,” I protested.

“I know.”

“Then why is there one more?”

“That's generally how additional presents work.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

He smiled. That should have been my first warning.

The box was small. Very small. My stomach dropped so fast I was pretty sure Micah could have used it for a lesson on gravity.

We had talked about marriage in the vague, someday way people did when they knew where something was headed but weren't in any hurry to get there. I loved him. I loved living with him even though we technically weren't living together. I loved his stupid telescope and his stupid winks and the way he still occasionally got himself killed in Project Undead because he stopped to read things while zombies were actively trying to eat him.

I could marry him. I probably would marry him. But he could not just⁠—

Micah shifted onto one knee.

“Oh my God.”

His eyebrows went up.

“You'd better not be proposing to me.”

His face changed. Just enough. Shit.

“No. Wait. That's not what I meant.” I sat forward. “I mean, not that I wouldn't. Eventually. Probably. I mean—fuck, Micah, don't look at me like that.”

His mouth twitched. I stopped. “You asshole.”

He lost it. Actually, lost it, folding forward as he laughed.

“You did that on purpose.”

“I didn't know what you were going to think until you started looking like you were about to throw up,” he said with a stupid grin on his face.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't.”

Unfortunately, he had substantial evidence to the contrary.

Still grinning, he held the box out to me. “Open it.”