His eyes flick to me once, and then he sets his beer down and stands. The ring gleams, ridiculous and pink in his hand as he comes to the other side of the booth and stands in front of me.
“Wife me up, Lu.”
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, though my pulse is already sprinting.
“Oh, he’s daring,” Zoe cackles, bouncing in her seat. “He picked dare, remember?”
Eli waves his hand grandly, nearly knocking over Tamara’s drink. “It’s okay, Lulu, it’s not for real. Right, Miller?Not for real!SAY IT, MILLER. NOT. FOR. REAL.”
Logan doesn’t say a word, just keeps his eyes locked on mine and drops to one knee, while the whole booth erupts.
He holds the monstrosity of a ring up between us, his mouth tipping wryly. “Tallulah Parnell,” Logan says, voice carrying over the roar. “From the day you walked into my life, you’ve been… sunshine. And I’d be a goddamn idiot not to lock that down.”
I nearly choke. “LOGAN!”
“Will you make me the happiest idiot alive and accept this fine piece of plastic craftsmanship?”
I gasp, hand over my chest, throwing myself into it because what else do you do when the man you’re secretly sleeping with proposes in front of your entire found family?
“Oh, Logan,” I sigh, loud and dramatic, “I thought you’d never ask!”
“Put it on her!” Chase’s cackle cuts through the roar. Zoe’s practically climbing onto the table. “Matrimonial kiss incoming!”
Logan’s mouth quirks, not a smile exactly, but something wavering and unguarded. He catches my left hand, slides the pink monstrosity onto my finger with mock precision, binding me for life in pink plastic. It’s too big, slipping sideways, but it sparkles under the neon like it means something anyway.
I barely register our friends are losing their ever-loving shit—Claire’s screaming, Zoe’s chanting for us to kiss, Charlie’s half-hiding in Jake’s chest, and Tamara covers her face, like if she can’t see it, it’s not happening. Eli is pounding his chest, shouting, “HAHA, IT’S FIIIIINE. Right, Tamara? TAMA-RAAA, tell them it’s fine!” while Hutch calmly holds him upright.
Logan doesn’t look at them, doesn’t look at anyone but me. The lights buzz, sequins bite into my ribs, but all I feel is his hand swallowing mine, thumb brushing my knuckles while his gaze pins me in place—constant, unreadable, terrifyingly sure.
Chapter thirty
I feel like a queen right now
Logan
The bar is still buzzing, lights flashing against sequins, the girls shrieking into each other’s shoulders like the last three minutes didn’t just end in a goddamn circus. Lulu’s laughing so hard at something Zoe says, she nearly tips sideways in the booth. My fake bride, glowing as if nothing can touch her, as though she’s never been told she’s too much, too loud, too anything.
And it makes me so fucking happy I might’ve had a part to play in that tonight.
Ishouldhave hated this. Should’ve shut down the stupid dares. Instead, I can’t stop staring at the pink plastic ring gleaming on her finger. Until it slips loose.
“Shit.” She gasps, diving under the table. Tamara follows, both of them crawling around, sequined gremlins, giggling too hard to care as they search for it. Lulu pops back up empty-handed, dress strap falling off her shoulder, hair wild. She shrugs like it doesn’t matter, still grinning.
“Guess I lost it. Divorce after three minutes—record time, right?” Her laugh is high and tipsy, and she dismisses it like it was never real.
Nobody notices when I crouch down and spot the stupid thing wedged under the leg of the booth. Neon pink, cheap, sharp edge already digging into my palm. I slip it into my pocket before anyone else can see.
It’s nothing. A joke. A five-dollar prize from the arcade claw machine, but for some reason, it feels heavier than gold.
I sit back, my hand still in my pocket, closing around the plastic until it bites. I tell myself to let it go, that this is drunk noise and sequins and tequila shots. That I’m too smart to let it mean anything.
But it does. It fuckingdoes.And I can’t let it go.
Not when I can still taste her lipstick, not when her sequined dress is the same one I peeled off her in a dressing room just yesterday.
Not when the second I slid that ring onto her finger—even plastic, even fake—it felt right. Natural. Like it was supposed to be there.
And I know, as sure as I know the beat of my own pulse, that I’d never want to put a ring on anyone else. Not like that. Not ever.
