All McKenna needed was for Bobbi to get engaged first. Which meant all McKenna needed was for Oliver to propose—and Bobbi to say yes, of course. But right now Oliver just making it through the proposal would be a major victory. Progress at least.
More progress than McKenna was currently making down this steep, tree-rooted trail toward the man on the bench.
She removed one of her Birkenstocks to brush away a stabbing piece of mulch as she offered up a prayer that everything worked out this time. Dear Lord, please don’t let this be like the ice cream shop incident.
Oliver had been so close that night. If only the elderly gentleman at the table next to them hadn’t started having a heart attack. And if only Bobbi handled emergency situations better. The man having the heart attack probably recovered long before Bobbi did.
She’d been so hysterical, Oliver told McKenna afterward there was no way he could pop the question for at least another month.You know how important this proposal is to your sister. She wants it to be a complete surprise. And since I only plan on doing this once, I want everything to be as perfect as she does. Can you blame me?
No. McKenna couldn’t blame him. Wasn’t her job in photography all about helping her boss stage and capture perfect smiles? Well, as perfect as anyone could get snapping gap-toothed grins and brace-ladened smirks since the majority of their workload centered around taking all of the local districts’ school-year photos.
But that wasn’t the point. The point was she understood where Oliver was coming from. Most of the time. If he was excited and yelling at the television over a soccer match, she didn’t understand him at all. But again, not the point.
The point, the real point, was that Bobbi was special. McKenna had known that since before her little sister was even born. So if McKenna had to take matters into her own hands to ensure Bobbi got the perfect proposal her baby sister deserved, that’s what McKenna would do whether Oliver wanted her to or not.
And based on their conversation yesterday, he did not.
No offense, McKenna, but I think you’ve perhaps turned into a jinx. Every time you’ve been there, the proposal has gone up in flames—quite literally the last time. I know you want to capture the big moment onfilm, but perhaps it’s best that you don’t. I was nervous enough that she’d see you at one of the restaurants. If she spots you next to the river, she’ll definitely know something’s up, which will blow the whole element of surprise and we’ll be back at square one again.
She’s not going to see me. I promise.
Should you even be out and about so soon after surgery?
I had a mole removed, not a kidney. Now will you please just trust me? I can hide the ring for you on the bench, so there’s no chance of her finding it beforehand.
Fine. But then you disappear. No meddling.
Disappear. No meddling. Scout’s honor.
In her defense, they never really did nail down what constituted the definition ofmeddling. Making sure a bench was vacant and clean before she planted the engagement ring, then snuck behind a tree to secretly take pictures surely fell under the umbrella ofnot meddling.
MCKENNA
“I wasn’t meddling. I wasn’t. I washelping...and yes, maybe also trying to get some amazing candid shots to start bulking up my portfolio. I’m sorry, but do you need a pen or something? Can’t help but notice you still aren’t writing anything down.”
NATE
“I’ve never seen someone so guilty of meddling in my entire life. And that’s actually saying a lot considering the people I know in my hometown. We’ll get to them later.”
“Sir?” The scent of mulch and pine surrounded McKenna as she finally stumbled off the most sandal-averse trail in the world, closer to the proposal bench.
The man, dressed in a teal T-shirt and gray cargo pants, remained motionless, reclined flat with a black ball cap resting over his face and a brown messenger bag beneath his head as a pillow. His hands were clasped and resting on top of what appeared to be a trim muscled stomach. Vintage-looking white Nikes with a black swoosh jutted off the opposite end of the bench where his ankles were crossed.
“Sir, I hate to bother you. Really, I do, but...” Her hand hovered over his shoulder. Then his hat. Then back to his shoulder. She didn’t know where to touch him. Everything felt too personal. LikeHey honey, can you wake up?Where was theHey dude, scrampart of the body?
She leaned down. Was his chest moving? She crouched closer to make sure he was breathing. Of course he was. Nobody looked this relaxed and comfortable dead. But how was he so still? Mannequins weren’t this still. And what was tickling her toes?
Snake!
McKenna kicked one foot. Then the other. Then nearly face-plantedinto the guy’s left armpit before realizing the deadly snake was nothing more than an overgrown piece of grass.
She caught herself in time, but not before getting a small taste of fabric when her tongue brushed the armpit of the guy’s T-shirt because she was open-mouthed and silently shrieking.
The good news—she hadn’t made a peep during that whole escapade, so the guy was still sleeping.
The bad news—she hadn’t made a peep during that whole escapade, so the guy was still sleeping.
The unexpected news—the armpit of his T-shirt tasted better than the armpit of a stranger’s T-shirt ever should. What did this guy do? Smear his armpits with apple pie?
