“Um.” I peer over at my passenger seat, currently holding a box of my latest creations. “Sure.”
He jogs around the vehicle, and I scoop up my box of “thingy-ma-bobs.” Sliding into the car, Roman peers over at me. “I’m not sure you can drive and hold that.”
“Right. It was in your seat. So, I?—”
“I’ll hold it.”
Roman Graves. Brice’s best friend. Professional soccer player. My teenage crush. That man is in my car, holding my stuff, and proposing marriageto me.
Okay, he isn’t currently proposing. That sort of already happened.
“You don’t have a secret surprise party waiting at this cabin for me, do you?” I say nervously—something to fill the empty space around us. “You aren’t going to kneel down and propose all dramatic for your social media, right?”
“No.” He snuffs out a laugh. “I don’t do social media,” he says. His smile falters.
“Sure, you do.” I roll along the dirt road at a snail’s pace—a pace that would never murder woodland creatures. “You post every Friday.”
Roman smirks beside me, and I stiffen. Did I just give myself away? Yes, I follow Roman. No, I’m not a prowler.
“That’s what my mom says.” I swallow. “I don’t follow you.” Scoffing, I shoot one quick glance Roman’s way. It’s an expression that says my mother is the prowler. His smile returns, but it’s suspicious. “She follows you. She loves you. Always has. She says you post on Fridays.”
“She says? Not you?”
“Nope.” I stare ahead, watching the road, waiting for Roman’s house to come into view. “Mymother.”
“Your mother is observant,” he says.
Another pause—but this time, I choose not to fill the silence.
“How is Rebecca?” Roman asks.
See, I don’t need to fill the silence. He will.
“Good. She’s good. I mean, she isn’t thrilled about moving. But she’s healthy, and I think she and Dad are happy.”
“Yeah. The move. I’m sorry. I know this,” he says, motioning from me to himself, “isn’t ideal. But you don’twant to move back to Canada with your parents—right? That’s what Willow said.”
Oh, I truly wonder what Willow said that day. And how Roman came to interpret each and every one of her words. I clear my throat, and soon a small home comes into view. I stare at the log cabin yards ahead of us. It’s the only house in sight. It must be Roman’s.
He’s still waiting for an answer.
“Do I want to move to Canada? And back in with my parents? Holy—no. No. No.” I shake my head and stare at my saving grace—Roman Graves.
“And you’re okay with … marriage?” he asks.
“Are you okay with marriage?” I choke on the words. That question feels more pressing. He’s marrying me to save me. And, let’s not forget, to obtain this cabin.
“Yeah,” he says, but his voice is strained. “One hundred percent okay.”
“We’ll have to tell my mother.”
“The truth?” he says, his brows cinched in worry. “Rebecca may not approve of our illegal activity.”
“Um, no. Not the truth.” I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles have gone a starch white. “Never.” Gosh, I’m doing all this to spare her, to avoid owning up to every single one of my current failures.
He nods. “Big no. Got it.”
“But we will have to tell her we’re getting married. Maybe we should tell her that we already are, so she doesn’t try to make a trip back for the ceremony.”
