“Anyway,” he said, running his hand through his hair again. “Sensible, perhaps. Only option? Yes. Mark and Magnum are shit with keeping things to themselves, and Maverick has been more out of sorts than normal.”
“Okay.” I let the word hang in the air, hoping he’d fill the silence and stop the cloak-and-dagger shit. Not that I had anything going on with Emma after dinner, but I didn’t want to spend a perfectly good evening playing twenty questions.
“Damn it. Listen. No. Just look.” He popped the olives in his mouth and pushed the glass to the edge of the bar before reaching into the pocket of his slacks and pulling out a velvet box.
Oh. Oh.
That black ring box was like a ticking time bomb between us, and I felt woefully unprepared to help with whatever crisis he was having.
“My grandmother gave this to me. It’s a family heirloom meant to adorn the finger of the woman I intend to marry.”
Adorn the finger? Fuck. This is out of my league.
“That’s Addison, of course. I love her so fucking much. The first time we touched, I knew she was meant to be mine. She’s my everything, Miller. Nothing matters without her.”
He signaled for another drink, and I did the same, finishing the last dregs of my beer. What was I supposed to say to him? Profess some profound knowledge about the mysteries of the universe, with love being the answer to the ultimate question? Or did he expect me to sit here and nurse a beer while he spouted sonnets about Addison and asked me the logistics behind renting out albino peacocks to spell ‘Will you marry me’ in the park one crisp spring evening?
“I’ve heard that you only fall madly in love once,” he continued like I wasn’t there, panicking at what my role in this conversation was supposed to be. “But I can’t believe that—not when I fall in love with her all over again every day.”
“It’s good that you know it’s her,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “You’ve been together, for what? A year? Definitely longer than Magnum and Brooke. I wish I was that confident aboutanythingin my life.”
I scoffed. This was about him, not whatever my mind conjured after Indian food and beer. Still, the confidence he had in his love for Addison triggered something inside of me. I rubbed my knuckles over my chest to alleviate the feeling, but that only made it worse.
“Yeah. Something like that, but I’m no good for her.”
My head jerked from staring at the condensation dripping down my beer glass to him, swirling the olives around in his second martini with a look of utter devastation across his sharp features. He and Addison were stupidly perfect for each other. She smoothed his rough edges, and he held her up so she could fly.
Damn it. Now I’m a bloody poet.
“No good for her? Gotta disagree with you on that one.” I shook my head and took a large gulp of my beer, letting the hops burn my tongue.
“When you first onboarded with us, you barely spoke two words that weren’t work related. You were closed off and basically an asshole.”
“I knew you were the right person to text, Miller,” he said, not bothering to hide the irritation dripping from his voice.
“Shut up. That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Remember, you’re the one who has apparent trust issues with my brothers and chose to text me. So, now you’re stuck.”
“I need another drink,” he said, tossing the sword that held the olives back into the empty glass.
“What you need is to not get pissed while I try to impart wisdom.”
I pulled his glass toward me and ordered him a water and buffalo wings. My stomach might rebel after the Indian food, but Simon needed something to soak up the gin, and I was nothing if not a considerate friend—even if I was a last resort.
“Impart wisdom?”
“Shut up, dick. If you can use big phrases, so can I. Just listen.”
I scrubbed my hand over my face and drank deeply, rolling my eyes as he unbuttoned his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves to the elbow.
“I think you’re having whatever this is—” I waved my hand in front of him, and he batted it away, shaking his head, “—because you’re worried about labels.”
“Labels?” he croaked, looking a little green. Perhaps I should have ordered nachos; one would think those wouldn’t take as long to make as wings.
“Yeah. Labels. You know? Marriage. Husband. Wife. Labels.”
He nodded, giving me a minuscule amount of confidence that I wouldn’t fuck this up and ruin his life.
I thought about my parents—and how in love they were. Not because of outlandish gestures—though my dad always went a little crazy around their anniversary—but because of the little things they did for one another. From fixing Mom’s coffee in the morning to her making sure Dad had a steady supply of Butterfingers in his toolbox.
