Simon needed reassurance, and from the little I knew about his immediate family—they were all royal assholes. Reassurance, I could do. Not from my own experience but from the example I grew up admiring.
“I remember back before my dad died, he pulled the four of us boys aside in the hospital. Maverick snuck in a bottle of twenty-five-year-old whiskey, and the nurses turned a blind eye. He told us that the purest form of love is not how you feel about someone, but how you treat them. And I see how she treats you, Simon.”
Simon swiveled on the bar stool and tilted his head before reaching for his water and chugging the glass. More than half my beer sat untouched as the bartender set the wings between us. I dunked a celery stick in the blue cheese and pushed the plate toward him, taking his silence to mean he was still on the fence about my sanity.
“He said real love has little to do with falling. There can’t be love without first having commitment, loyalty, patience, and persistence.”
A crease appeared between his brows, and he tugged on his collar again, finally releasing the top two buttons, yanking his black tie off,and stuffing it into the pocket of his slacks. He looked to be on the verge of a panic attack; I recognized the signs from Maverick. He clenched his fists and a bead of sweat formed on his temple.
Fuck.
“She deserves someone better than me. Someone—”
“Stop. Simon.” I grasped his shoulder and squeezed hard. “You’ve become a better man with her. The two of you together, that’s love. Patience. Honesty. Forget everything else except one simple question. Do you want her forever?”
His eyes widened, and for a moment, an image of Emma flashed before my eyes. Her hand was against my jaw and the other around my waist. Pulling us tightly together until our lips touched in a playful sort of kissing. Something that involved stroking and nipping and the suggestion of hidden depths—an offer of the delicious things to come.
What?
Simon was on the verge of some sort of life, love, forever crisis, and all I could think about was Emma.
“I want her forever,” he said, placing his hand over the velvet box. His words had a sincerity that made my chest ache. Why? Great question—but the way he oozed confidence, coming back from the brink of panic to realize Addison was forever, was… Something. Perhaps I should text Emma.
Nope. Why was that my first thought?
“Then that’s all that matters,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder and pushing thoughts of my honeyed-blonde girl straight out of my head. “You’re a better person with her in your life, and you respect her enough to want the absolute best for her, which for some damn reason, you don’t think is you.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Don’t guess. You know I’m right,” I said, smiling and giving him as much of a bow as I could from the high-top chairs.
“So, she won’t laugh in my face if I propose?” His voice was cracking and quiet, betraying the confidence of his earlier realization.
“Not at all. Unless the proposal is balls, but even then, she loves you enough to overlook it.”
“Fuck,” he said, tugging on another button on his shirt. “Now I have to plan a proposal.”
“That’s easy. Between your fancy words and poshness, you’ll have it figured out in a half-hour.”
“Poshness?”
“Yes. Poshness. You know. Your uppity attitude about practically everything. Just spout romantic words to her, with your expensive cufflinks and refusal to wear jeans, and she won’t even think about turning you down.”
“I’m starting to understand why your manners are so abysmal if you think my attitude is uppity.”
“Oh, Addison,” I said, with a large amount of dramatic flair and placing my hand over my heart. “I crave your caress. Not a second goes by without thinking about you. My heart and everlasting love are yours.”
“Dick,” he said, chuckling as I batted my eyelashes and fanned my face. “I do not sound like that.”
“Prick, and yes, you do.”
“Miller?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
Chapter 9
