“Hm?”
I lean back enough to see his face fully. “Why did you just make that face?”
“What face?”
“That face.”
He shakes his head too fast. “No face.”
I stare.
He stares back.
Then, because I know him, because I know the exact set of his mouth when he’s trying not to give something away, my eyes narrow.
“Oh my god.”
His brows lift. “That’s dramatic.”
“Do notdramaticme right now.” I grab his hoodie strings. “Grayson Bennett.”
He catches my wrists, laughing under his breath. “Harlow Mercer.”
Something electric and bright starts climbing through me.
“Do you have a ring?”
His laughter stops.
Not in a bad way.
In a caught way.
My mouth falls open. “You do.”
He exhales, long and slow, and tips his head back against the couch cushion like the ceiling might save him. “I cannot believe this is how this is happening.”
I make a strangled sound that is not dignified. “There is a ring?”
He lowers his gaze to mine again, and now he’s the one who looks a little undone. A little vulnerable. It does something wild and tender to my heart.
“There is a ring,” he admits.
I stare at him.
He stares at me.
Then I say, very carefully, “Why is there a ring if you weren’t planning to use it?”
His hand slides to my hip, holding me there like he needs the contact. “Iamplanning to use it.”
A ridiculous amount of joy collides with a ridiculous amount of nerves inside me at once.
“Tonight?”
He huffs a laugh that sounds almost disbelieving. “Not like this.”
“Wow,” I say softly. “You had a plan.”
