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He stands to his very impressive full height, and I turn and look up at him.
“I’d really like to wait and have Pastor B marry us in the place we first met.”
“That’s adorable,” Chloe says, drawing my attention to our group of friends.
I look back at Pope. “Yeah, I think we can do that.”
He winks at me and takes my hand. “Let’s go grab a meal and a bottle of champagne to celebrate me being the luckiest man on the planet.”
Before my face can turn bright red, York shoves her phone in her bag. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, let me see that ring.”
With everything going on around me, I haven’t even looked at the ring. Truth be told, I was too busy looking into John Paul’s eyes and wanting to live in that moment. The moment where I’m not as terrified that, one day, he’ll see whatever it is my mom said is in me that made her believe I just don’t fit in with her lifestyle.
But now, I’m looking at it and …
“Holy effing crap.”
York snort-laughs. “You had to go bigger than Kal’s, didn’t you?”
“Damn right I did,” Pope answers with a nod.
“I can’t wear this.”
“Whit, you’re going to wear it.”
“What if I lose it?” I ask, feeling myself start to panic.
“It’s insured,” he says as if it’s no big deal that I have a giant diamond on my finger, along with the platinum band that is also covered in diamonds.
“Cars and houses are insured, Pope. This is … insane.”
“But, Whit, look how pretty it looks on your finger.” Chloe swoons.
I glance at Pope, and he winks. Freaking winks.
Walking into the room, I’m feeling the effects of the very expensive champagne and the alertness of how close we’ve been all day. Pope’s hand held mine most of the day, and as silly as I know it is, how easily he could break my heart, I’ve allowed myself to feel his touch so deep that it’s probably going to leave another John Paul–size scar—a major league scar.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” he says, then finally lets go of my hand before he walks away.
“I’ll be here,” I say, looking down at the ring that no doubt cost more than the land I’ve been saving for two years to buy. The half-acre lot where the guys and I and now Nora, Popa B, and Pope have hit balls and played catch, where I plan to build a house for Nora and me and Gram and Popa B. I never want them to have to live in some retirement home far away from the church community they love and who love them, and they will not.
I slide my kitten heels off and walk over to take in this city that is stunning, but not home. John Paul will live in these types of places for at least ten years if he sticks with his goal, which of course he will because he’s Pope.
In the window’s reflection, I see the bathroom door open, and he walks out.
“Makes you miss home, yeah?” he asks, walking toward me.
He stops beside me. I turn my head and look up at him.
“It’s beautiful. I bet New York is too.”
“Not a bad view from my place across the bay in Jersey.” He smiles when he sees the confusion. “Never been a big city boy.” He chuckles. “Not that Weehawken is like Walton, but it’s a twenty-five-minute drive or forty-minute train ride in. The house is a two-family colonial in Kings Bluff. It’s an older home. Twelve-foot ceiling, marble floor, restored mahogany walls and staircase. I rent the other side to some CEO who lives in the city. He’s never there, but his rent check is.”
“I’m surprised you’re not living it up in the city as a bachelor and?—”
“Are you really though, Whit?” he asks.
“I mean, yeah.” I shrug.
