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I have no earthly idea what’s going on. No clue how he’s involved in this or what he’s doing here.
Oh, and I still don’t know his freaking name.
But I can’t stop the small squeak that spills out, turning into a strangled mumble.
“Jet Daddy,” I say instinctively.
“Jet who?” he snaps, his eyes widening, before he scowls. “Miss Lark, that’s not my name.”
Lena looks over her shoulder and echoes my squeak.
“Holy shit, it’s you!” She stares at him, going so pale she could give me a run for my money.
This is just getting weirder and weirder.
“You know him?” I demand.
“I know of him,” Lena strangles out. “You don’t?”
Then Jet Daddy turns his hell-glare on Lena. She recoils, blushing, sudden color painting her face in vivid red as she makes a choking sound.
Gran lets out an aggrieved sigh. “You young people, always making such drama of everything.” She turns away, thumping her crutch definitively toward the kitchen. “Come inside. Let’s not have this conversation on the front stoop like heathens. I’ll make tea. There’s enough muffins for everyone.”
Lena just looks at me incredulously.
“You always fall into the weirdest messes,” she says before she brushes past me to the kitchen—though that doesn’t stop her from catching my hand for a moment and giving it a warm, reassuring squeeze.
That just leaves me standing in the entryway more numb than I’ve ever been in my life.
Jet Daddy stays rooted to the front step, watching me with those penetrating blue eyes.
“Um,” I say. “Is this like a vampire thing? You can’t come in without being invited?”
“You,” he mutters thinly, “have the oddest imagination, Miss Lark. My name is August Marshall.”
I blink at him. “If that’s supposed to mean something, it doesn’t.”
“Don’t know if I find that a relief or—fuck, forget it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have time for muffins. I have a full schedule today, and this is an unplanned detour. If we could stop wasting time, I’d like to ask you to marry me.”
“What?” I yelp loudly.
“What?!” Lena echoes from the kitchen.
But August what’s-his-face’s stone-cold expression doesn’t change.
I don’t think he’s joking.
I’m sure I make every last face under the sun for him while my stomach and heart do a twisty tango that leaves me feeling breathless and stunned and just a bit sick.
“You heard me,” August Marshall says, opening the box in his hand to reveal a diamond-encrusted silver band.
The thing almost blinds me. I’m sure it could retail for seven solid figures.
We’re beyond numb now.
I’m not sure how I still have a pulse.
Even in the dim grey Seattle morning, the ring—the flipping ring!—glitters impossibly.
