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She just looks at me and laughs.
I laugh too. “So. Round two?”
Sierra grins. “Really?”
“Why not?”
She snuggles in my arms. “Because my butt is cold?”
My hands go down and start massaging it. “Here, let me help you with that.”
“Because we never had the cake?”
I get up, stalk over to the picnic basket, and come back with the cakes.
We sit there, eating.
“You know, this might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
When I look over, Sierra’s done with her cake, her thoughtful gaze resting on me like a shy bird that might flit away any second.
“I can’t say it’s anything original I came up with,” I admit. “Back when we were kids, it was my mom’s favorite thing to do with me. She’d prepare these literal feasts, then pick some weird place we’d never been before. Tiny forests and fields too insignificant to be on maps were her favorites.”
My hand finds hers and I look out into the dark night and its shadows. “That was back when Google Maps wasn’t a thing, when the world seemed a lot less explored and scoured over. Anyway, I’m rambling.”
When I glance at Sierra, she’s already looking at me. “You don’t talk about your mom much.”
“Don’t I?” I shrug. I toss the cake plate away like a Frisbee, wishing I could toss away what I said too.
It’s always better not to bring her up.
“You know what this means?” I say to Sierra, smiling.
“What?” she says.
All I have to do is kiss her for her to understand.
**
At work the next morning, I feel like a fucking clown.
I can’t seem to get pissed off at any of the things I normally do—how a few of the guys feel the need to take smoke breaks every half-hour, how the timeline for completion keeps being pushed back, like sandbags against an inevitable flood.
I keep on smiling, like I decided ‘fuck it’ and came to work baked today.
Guess she’s just about the best joint imaginable.
Sierra Hill.
I keep popping by her office for the stupidest shit—a pen, checking we’re on for lunch, just to say hello. When really, it’s just for a fucking smile.
That smile of hers…
Jesus fucking Christ, I’m losing it.
When it’s finally time for lunch, I’m walking her out of there when we pass by Jeremiah, who lets out a long, low whistle.
“Careful there,” I say curtly. “That’s my fiancee you’re whistling at.”
We freeze.
Holy fuck.
Did I just say that? And why did it feel natural as hell?
One look at Sierra’s sadly puzzled face, though, and I know—whatever made me do it—it wasn’t worth it. Not at fucking all.
Outside, the overly bright sunlight in my eyes seems something else saying I’m a goddamn idiot. As if I didn’t know already.
I touch Sierra’s tense bare arm. “Hey. Sorry about that. It just slipped out.”
She nods. “We are doing this, after all.”
“Yeah.” I straighten. “We are.”
The lunch doesn’t go so well, after that.
Maybe Jax had a point about this whole pretending thing.
It feels too late to go back on it, though. When I try bringing it up, Sierra just looks sad, like I don’t understand what we’ve gotten ourselves into at all.
Back at the office, Greyson calls me up.
“Long time no talk,” he says.
“Right back at you, old man,” I quip. “How’s the old ball and chain?”
“You’re on speakerphone, Nolan dearest,” Harley calls out.
They crack up, while I add, “Never said it wasn’t a lovely ball and chain.”
“Oh, you charmer, you,” she says. “Too bad I’m taken.”
“Too bad is right,” Greyson says with a chuckle. “Anyway, you’re off speakerphone now, I was just putting away a few dishes.”
“Aren’t you just husband of the year,” I comment.
Greyson makes a skeptical sound. “I was thinking. We’re long overdue for a family dinner. Might be good for Emerson, too.”
“Good idea,” I say. “Where you thinking?”
“Our place?” he says. “Harley’s cleaning it now, actually, and I know she’s been wanting to host a dinner for some time now.”
“You guys have a pool. I’m in,” I say.
He snorts. “Glad the prospect of seeing family is so appealing. There is one other thing, though…”
“I won’t bring any unsuitable women, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say.
“Landon mentioned that you’re seeing someone,” Greyson says. “As long as she’s not clinically insane, you could try bringing her by.”
“That was one girl,” I protest. “One girl with undiagnosed delusions that only came out on the second glass of wine. How was I to know? One girl and I can never live it down.”
I pause.
This is the part where I should probably tell him about the engagement thing. Or at least lay the groundwork so they don’t all fall out of their chairs in shock when I do tell them.
But I can’t seem to get the words out.
“This girl,” I say. “It’s getting kind of serious, actually.”
“Oh?” Greyson says. “That is interesting. You sure you’re not the one suffering from delusions?”
