This woman. This life. Mine.
“Wait.” Her voice trails off suddenly. She slows on the sidewalk, turning slightly as her eyes narrow toward a familiar wrought iron gate tucked beside one of the brick buildings. Then she looks at me.
“This alley,” she announces, pointing dramatically. “Ty McCade, is this the alley?”
A grin pulls at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. “It is.” I glance toward the alley entrance, trying very hard to act normal considering this place is currently a major part of my plan for the evening. “We had a really good kiss in there.”
She cocks her head to one side. “A really good kiss?”
“It was memorable.”
She looks amused now. “Memorable.”
“You’re being annoying about this.”
“Oh, please.” But she’s grinning as she walks backward toward the gate. “You were obsessed with me.”
“I still am, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?” she laughs.
God, she’s beautiful. Streetlights catch the soft waves in her hair. Eyes laughing with her ice cream in one hand while she reaches for the old gate handle with the other.
“I can’t believe this place is still?—”
She tugs thehandle. Nothing.
Her forehead wrinkles. “Huh.”
She tries again. Locked. “No. That’s not right. We should be able to get in.”
Confused, she turns back toward me, and stops, because I’m no longer standing where she left me.
I’m down on one knee, and the entire world goes silent. Like the city itself pauses with her.
Vivian stares at me. Then at the velvet box in my hand.
“Oh my gosh,” she whispers.
My heart is beating so hard it feels medically concerning. Which is ridiculous considering I make a living performing under pressure.
But this? This is the scariest thing I’ve ever done. This mattersmore.
I let out a nervous, breathy laugh as Vivian makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, her free hand flying to her mouth.
“I had a much smoother speech planned,” I admit. “But right now my brain feels like it’s being hit by a Zamboni.”
She laughs tearfully. This is why I want to be with her forever. She’s still meeting me in every moment exactly where I am.
I open the box fully. The ring catches the glow from the streetlights—elegant and timeless and completely, undeniably Vivian. Her grandmother helped design it.
Actually, correction. Her grandmother lovingly bullied me through the process for the last six months. Turns out jewelry designers are terrifying when they are also emotionally invested.
“I went to your grandmother after Emma’s wedding,” I tell her softly, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “Because I knew then. Probably before then too, honestly.”
She laughs shakily.
“There’s an inscription inside,” I continue. “Your grandmother said the ring needed one final touch from me.”
