Two years after Cabo, I proposed on the beach in La Jolla at sunset.
I had planned it.
Actually planned it.
Dinner first. Walk after. Ring in my pocket so long it had burned against my thigh the entire meal. Georgia wore a soft blue dress and sandals that kept sinking in the sand. Her hair was down, waves catching gold in the dying light. She looked beautiful. Happy. Safe.
I got down on one knee.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
The yes came through tears.
Everyone nearby clapped because people loved a proposal when it didn’t cost them anything.
Georgia cried.
I smiled.
I kissed her.
Her ring caught the sunset.
Her parents were over the moon when we told them. Her mother cried harder than Georgia had. Her father hugged meand clapped my back, then took me outside and told me if I hurt his daughter, he would be disappointed in me.
Not kill me.
Not bury me.
Disappointed.
That somehow hurt worse.
The club celebrated too.
Nate got drunk enough to toast “the death of Dylan’s tragic bachelor era,” then got sentimental enough to hug me in a way that made both of us uncomfortable.
Callum shook my hand.
Held it a second too long.
“You happy?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He watched me.
I held his gaze.
“Yeah,” I said again.
He nodded like he had decided to accept the lie because I was trying so hard to make it true.
We didn’t set a date.
That was easy to explain.
I had work. Georgia had work. We were saving money. The business was growing. The club had problems. There was a run coming up down south, and the border had been heating for months. Cargo getting hit. Routes shifting. Old alliances fraying. Men with too much pride and too many guns deciding territory meant more than blood.
