Me: Okay, guys, seriously signing off now.
I close out of the text thread and silence my phone, the device buzzing with responses from the guys the whole time.
My hands are sweaty, my shoulders tense. It’s been a few days since I saw Savannah, but my stomach still aches every time I think about the way she looked at me in that hallway. I want to stop hurtingher, but it’s all I seem to do. I want her to be happy, and I think it’s clear that won’t ever happen if she’s with me.
Will I see her here? There’s a good chance. Shit. If I upset her, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I promised Sienna I’d do this photo shoot, and I don’t go back on my promises.
The receptionist leads me toward the studio, and as we step inside, she asks if I’d like a water. I shake my head, ready to reject the offer, but when I get a look at the one person already in the room, every thought leaves my brain.
Savannah.
The room is set up for the photo shoot, the camera, a black back drop, and lots of lights pointing in one direction.
And Savannah is standing in the middle of the open space, her wavy red hair flowing over her shoulders, a tight black cotton dress hugging her gorgeous curves, and the most beautiful smile on her glossy lips.
She’s not sad like she was at the arena the other day. No, she’s radiant.
“Let me know when you want the photographer,” the woman beside me says.
Savannah nods and then turns her full attention to me. “You can come in, you know. I promise I won’t bite.” Her lips curl up just a little, a hint of tease in her tone.
All I can do is blink. What the hell is happening? I’m too stunned to come up with a quip in response.
But my body knows where I belong, so my feet take over, moving me toward her quickly.
“Thanks for coming,” she says when I stop in front of her.
My hands itch to reach for her, to pull her against my chest. My arms ache to hold her, but if I do, I don’t know that I can let her go again, so I settle my hands in my pockets and nod. “The photo shoot is for you?”
She glances back at the setup, nodding. “Yeah. It’s for my new job.”
I frown. “New job?”
“I’ve been promoted. And given my own column. With my name on the byline, not Calliope’s. I’m calling it The New Romantics.” Sheworries at her lip, but that smile remains. “Turns out readers like my voice and my honesty when it comes to talking about falling in love.”
“Savannah,” I breathe, my chest expanding, “that’s incredible.”
She ducks, eyeing me from beneath her lashes. “I thought maybe I could write about our love story in my first article.”
I stumble back a step, the air suddenly sucked out of my lungs. “Huh?”
“You know.” Her lips twitch. “The story of how theMs. It’s Not Him, It’s Youfinally got her happy ending with theMr. It Was Definitely Me.”
“Baby girl,” I whisper, my heart racing, my knees wobbling so violently I worry I’ll lose my footing.
“It’s the story of us,” she murmurs. “You and me. Always.”
“I’m trying not to get my hopes up here. So”—I blow out a breath and rough a hand through my hair—“so I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be really clear when you answer.” I lick my lips, swallow past the lump in my throat. “Is this for the article, for some PR thing, or?—”
“Or,” she practically shouts. Inhaling deeply, she takes my hand and squeezes. “It’s the Or.”
And then she does the most obscene thing. Makes the most ridiculously perfect gesture. She drops to her knees, head tipped back, eyes locked on mine. “Marry me, Camden Snow.” Her voice wobbles as she squeezes my hand again. “Marry me and make me whole. Not because I can’t be whole on my own. Because I can. I did the work. I saw a therapist, and I know my worth. I know I’m worthy of love. I know now that not everyone will disappoint me. Some will”—a lift of one shoulder, a rueful smile—“and that’s okay. Marry me because I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Because I choose you. Marry me because you love me,” she says, her eyes filling with tears. “Marry me because you and I share the kind of epic love that everyone roots for. Our story is written in the stars and fought for on the pages. I promise I’ll fight for you every day. I’ll fight for us.”
I drop her hand, and as her hopeful smile turns to confusion, I shove my hand into my pocket and pull out the ring I’ve been carryingaround for the last six months. Then I drop to my knees in front of her and cup her face. “Marry me, baby girl. Be my wife. Be my family.”
She sobs, the tears falling now, and with a whisperedyes, she presses her mouth to mine. “Yes, yes, yes.” She says it over and over until I sweep my tongue into her mouth, silencing her.
Then, with shaky hands, I slide the diamond ring onto her finger.
