She never lets me read them, but that’s okay.
She’s writing for herself, not for anyone else.
"You said you always wanted to come here," I tell her with a shrug as the server clears our plates. "So I had to show you."
"Any desserts?" The server smiles at both of us, and we nod frantically, already decided before we even sat down.
"Could we please get four of the Pastel de Nata," Olive says, pointing at the custard tarts on the menu in case her pronunciation is off.
The server nods, taking away our menus before disappearing into the crowd of customers and workers.
"Trying to get me out of shape?" I scoff, sipping my beer which’ll do more damage than any custard tart ever could.
"And I’ll love you no matter what."
I’ll never forget the first time she told me she loved me.
It was right after the press conference, when she stood by me like her life depended on it.
We went back to my place with everyone close to us, and she’d arranged for a ‘Happy Retirement’ cake to be delivered.
While everyone stood around talking and laughing, Olive rose on her toes, kissed me when no one was watching, and whispered that she loved me.
That she’d love me forever. That she was mine, if I’d have her.
For the rest of my life.
And that’s when I finally realized: I’d won.
Whatever battle, whatever war I had been waging within myself…I’d come out on top.
When Hank Herring pulled me aside and offered his blessing to marry his daughter, something swelled in my throat that I couldn’t swallow down.
Of course, we were already married.
But he said if I wanted to propose for real—to renew our vows in front of everyone we loved—he had my back.
Now, sitting across from her, those beautiful hazel eyes locked on mine like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be, it hits me.
That tiny box in my pocket feels impossibly heavy.
"Where’s that mind wandered to, Avery Jones?"
She props her elbows on the table, chin resting on her interlaced fingers.
She hates surprises.
And if I were to tell her the truth, I’d say—I’m wondering if your family’s made it to the beach I reserved for your proposal.
If the photographer’s hidden well enough.
If you’ll say yes.
But I can’t tell her any of that.
What kind of husband would I be if I spoiled the most special surprise yet?
"It’s always on you, Songbird. Always on you."
