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I quickly popped the lid off and sucked in a gasp at the sight of the ring at the bottom of the empty cup. I turned it over, sliding the ring into my palm as my heart began to beat wildly against my ribs. “Oh my god,” I breathed.
“Deva.” I looked up from the ring at the sound of Laeth’s voice. I’d been so entranced by the beautiful solitaire I hadn’t realized he’d pulled the car to the side of the road and put it into park. He reached over and plucked the ring from my right hand, then took my left in his and held the ring poised at my finger. “When I first met you, I knew you were something special. You brought light into my world and chased the storm clouds away, even though I thought I didn’t deserve it. You showed me what true happiness was and gave me the best gift I could ever ask for when you gave me your love. You came in and made us a family, the last piece of the puzzle that made us whole, and I want to spend the rest of my life showing you how grateful I am. Marry me.”
I had to swallow past the lump of emotion that had suddenly formed to get the word out. “Yes.”
Laeth’s eyes widened, as if he hadn’t been expecting that. “Yes?”
“Yes!” I cried, unbuckling my seatbelt so I could throw myself over the center console and wrap my arms around his neck. “Of course, yes! I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
He kissed me, hard and fierce, before pulling back and sliding the ring onto my finger. It was a perfect fit, and as it rested at the base, I couldn’t help but feel like it belonged there.
“So, what do you say, Bambi?” Laeth asked. “You feel like driving us home? No time like the present to get a little practice in.”
The End.
Click HERE to read a bonus scene from Laeth and Deva
And keep flipping for an excerpt fromBombshell
Sneak Peek of Bombshell
Want some more single father goodness? Check out the this excerpt fromBombshell, book 1 in myWhiskey Dollsseries
Chapter 1
Marin
“Welcome to Cooking Solo,” the tall, reed-thin woman at the front of the room announced in a voice that rang with so much cheer, it screamed of bullshit. “A class designed for singles, such as yourselves, who want to learn the art of cooking for one.”
And this is what my life has become,I thought glumly,being passive-aggressively judged by a stick figure with a carat-and-a-half rock on her ring finger.
There should have been some sort of disclaimer when I signed up for the class online stating the instructor was a “happily married mother of three.”
If you were going to be teaching people to cook for one because they were painfully and glaringlyA-L-O-N-E, the least you could do was be single yourself.
But oh no, Chef Jodi—a title she’d undoubtedly christened herself with and insisted we call her by—couldn’t stop talking about her loving husband and precious babies.
I kind of hated Chef Jodi. Chef Jodi was an asshole.
“Now, we’re going to start off simple, because the last thing any single man or woman probably wants to do is waste time in the kitchen cooking up some complicated dish just for themselves, am I right?” She let out a condescending laugh. “I’m sure you’d rather be on one of those Tinder apps or on a blind date or whatever it is you single people do nowadays to try to meet someone.”
I was going to smack the shit out of this woman with my handy little spatula the next time she came around to my station.
“So tonight, I’m going to teach you to make one of my husband’s favorite meals—”
The vibe in the room was growing more hostile the longer she rattled on, and something told me Chef Jodi was going to be getting some pretty nasty reviews on Yelp.
“For the love of God, Jodi,” a woman who looked to be in her sixties, one station across and back from mine, declared. “Weallknow you and your family. Your husband spends so much time in his damn recliner doin’ a whole lotta nothing that his ass is permanently flattened. Thosesweet little angelsyou’re goin’ on about nearly started a forest fire last summer with a bunch of illegal fireworks, and everyone in town knows you lock yourself in the bathroom with a bottle of wine and sleep in the bathtub at least once a week just to escape the chaos. So you can get the hell off your high horse, already.”
The laugh I tried to swallow down came out as a snort as the room filled with snickers from all directions.
With Jodi properly put in her place, she managed to go about teaching the rest of the lesson without any more insults, and we were able to go about making our rosemary chicken without the commentary on how much her husband loved it.
I wasn’t a very good cook, so for the past few months I’d been living off cereal, boxes of powdered mac and cheese, and soup from a can—another reason I’d stupidly thought signing up for Cooking Solo was a good idea.
By the end of the class, I’d succeeded in making a passable dish that didn’t smell like charred feet and was only slightly rubbery, so I was feeling pretty good about myself as I cleaned my station and packed up to head home. Then I turned around and lost my breath at the sight of the man at one of the stations near the back of the room.
Pierce Walton: the sexiest man in existence, successful lawyer, single father of what had to be the cutest little boy on the face of the planet, world-class prick, and the older brother of my abusive asshole of an ex-boyfriend.
