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I don’t care about the fashion designer or the cologne brand, but maybe he’s right.
Amelia is the quintessential WAG. She looks like she belongs in my season ticket seats, when she shows up, and she looks like she belongs on the passenger side of my Maserati. No matter how nice the charity event is, or how many Michelin stars the restaurant has, Amelia dresses like she belongs there. And I’ll admit, she makes me look good whenever we walk into a room together.
But she’s never met my family and I still haven’t met hers, though she doesn’t talk about them much.
The pressure from my mom for me to produce grandkids is getting a little heavier every time we talk. With my three other brothers already producing cherub-cheeked perfect offspring, and my kid sister just getting married last spring. I’m the odd man out and my mom won’t let me forget it.
Maybe it’s time. And marrying someone as career-focused as Amelia could be good for me.
Maybe I’ve been ignoring what’s right in front of my face.
It’s not as if she hasn’t dropped the idea of engagement rings regularly. I’ve heard it.
I’ve just been too blind to see the obvious signs.
“I’m getting dinner with her tonight… I’ll run the idea by her and see what she thinks about getting married.”
“Great! I’ll tell my buddy that you’ll see him next week,” James says, reaching for his phone and dialing the front desk.
“James, that’s not what I—”
“Can you get Frank from immigration on the line for me? Great... and a turkey on rye for lunch. Fantastic, you're the best,” he tells his assistant.
I groan internally at his praise.
Tell her to add a visa extension approval to that lunch order and then at least she wouldn’t be the worst but she’s been his assistant for years and he won’t fire her.
He doesn’t even look up at me as he waits for his call to get connected.
I guess this meeting is over.
I turn around and head out the door.
It doesn’t matter what I say at this point—he’s going to call and book the appointment.
I’m not expecting to get denied by Amelia anyway. She’s been not-so-subtly sending me catalogs from the most expensive jewelry stores with a sticky note next to the ones she likes.
I got the message—loud and clear.
“Hey Frank… Frank my man… It’s James Potter. We’re on for that meeting…” I hear him say before his heavy oak office door closes behind me.
I guess tonight… I’m getting engaged.
Chapter Two
Ryker
“This place takes at least four months to get into, but I dropped your name, and they got us a reservation in one.”
Amelia beams at me after the sommelier drops off the wine that he helped us pair with our meal.
They've seated us at the most private table they have, and I’m relieved considering the gravity of the topic I want to discuss with her.
“It’s a nice place,” I say.
I watch as Amelia picks up her cell phone and snaps yet another selfie with her wine glass. I’m not sure how many photos she’s taken at this point, but at least a dozen.
“Did you know that this is the exact table where three A-list actors have proposed to their fiancées?” she practically squeals.
