“You really do, don’t you?” She reaches over to play with the hair on the nape of my neck. “Thanks for being my most obnoxious cheerleader. I didn’t see anyone clearing the area, but I did hear you, and that meant a lot.”
“Are you saying I’m the world’s best boyfriend?”
Her lips twitch. “For someone with zero experience, you truly are crushing it.”
“Night’s not over yet, darlin’.”
“Oh?” Her hand slips inside the V of my button-up.
I chuckle. “That’s gonna have to wait. I’m taking you out to celebrate.”
We grab a quick bite at the Homestead Hen. Then we head next door to the Rattler.
Her mouth falls open when she walks in and sees the place is lit up with pink lights. Bunches of pink balloons float over the bar, while Frisky Whiskey warms up with “Shake It Off.”
All of our family and friends—save the kids, of course—are here. They erupt into shouts and applause, making Billie burst into tears.
“Ry!” Her eyes are wide when they meet mine. “What the hell did you do?”
“I turned the Rattler into the Taylor Swift-themed bar of your dreams, obviously.”
She laughs, tears rolling down her cheeks. I wipe them away with my thumbs. I’m dizzy with joy.
Joy and pride.
“Why?” she asks.
I lift a shoulder. “Why not?”
In reply, she curls her arms around my neck and pulls me in for a hot, hard kiss. More whistles. The band is playing “Bejeweled” now.
“If you’re asking me to marry you,” she murmurs in my ear, “my answer’s yes.”
My heart pops around my chest as I dig into my front pocket. There, looped carefully around my dad’s pocketknife, I feel the paper ring I made.
Falling onto one knee, I hold out it to her. “Usually, I’d say assuming makes an ass out of you and me?—”
“But you know me so well that rule no longer applies.” She takes my face in her hands and leans down to kiss me. “Yes! Yes, Ry, I’ll marry you with a paper ring.”
“Oh, phew. You got the Taylor reference?—”
But before I can finish the thought, she’s kissing me again, and our people are shouting for us, and I’m slipping the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand.
“Figure this way, you can come with me to the jeweler to pick out what you actually want,” I say to her.
She admires the ring on her hand. “I kinda like this.”
“I kinda wanna buy you a diamond.”
“Fine.” Her face splits into a smile. “’Cause you wanna make me yours forever?”
“Forever.”
She’s leaning in for another kiss. “Sounds like heaven. I’m in.”
The pole barn is old, a far departure from the Wallace’s newer, state-of-the-art facilities that they’ve built over the past few years. But you wouldn’t know it from the way Billie takes in a lungful of musty air and smiles.
Looking at me, she says, “Welcome to the Anne and Robbie Rivers Therapy and Rehabilitation Center.”
