I raise an eyebrow. "Is it a dog with a behavioral issue? Because Apollo's all yours."
"Not a dog."
"Paperwork?"
"Why would I give you paperwork?"
"You gave me paperwork last week and called it romantic."
"That was a vaccination schedule," he protests. "You needed it."
Jake groans. "This is what I'm talking about. You two are the least sexy couple I've ever met."
"Feel free to leave," Dean tells him.
"I work here."
"Go work somewhere else."
Jake doesn't move. Just crosses his arms and settles in like he's watching a show.
Dean ignores him and reaches into his pocket. For a second, I think it actually is paperwork. Then he pulls out a small velvet box and my brain short-circuits.
Oh.
Oh.
"Callie O'Connor," Dean says, and his voice has that nervous edge I haven't heard since the day he showed up at my clinic with Maverick. "I've practiced this about a hundred times. Had a whole speech planned. But standing here with you, I'm realizing I don't need the speech."
"Dean—"
"I love you," he continues. "I love that you put dogs before me on your priority list. I love that you call me out when I'm being an idiot. I love that you followed me to Texas and then immediately made it yours."
My eyes are burning.
"I want to build this life with you," he says. "Not just the business or the house or the future we've been planning. I want all of it. The boring parts and the exciting parts and the parts where we argue about whether Apollo's being stubborn or just smart."
"He's being stubborn," I manage.
Dean grins. "See? We're perfect together." He opens the box, revealing a simple gold band with a single diamond that catches the Texas sun. "So will you marry me?"
I open my mouth to answer, and that's when Maverick—who's apparently been lurking nearby—lunges forward and tries to eat the ring box.
"No!" Dean yanks it back. "Bad dog! This wasn't part of the plan!"
I'm laughing and crying at the same time, which makes Dean look panicked until I throw my arms around his neck.
"Yes," I say against his mouth. "Obviously yes."
He kisses me, one hand still holding the ring box out of Maverick's reach while the other pulls me close. I taste salt—his sweat or my tears, I'm not sure which—and happiness, bright and sharp and real.
When we break apart, he's grinning like he just stuck a perfect landing.
"Can I put the ring on now before Maverick makes another play for it?"
"He's your dog."
"Our dog," Dean corrects. He takes my left hand, and I watch as he slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly. Of course it does.
