Page 4 of Final Proposal

“Oh my God.” She brings a hand over her heart. “It’s your dog, isn’t it?” Tears well in her eyes—something I totally don’t expect—as her voice lowers. “I’m so sorry.” She reaches out and squeezes my knee.

Here’s my out.

I can let the lie stand as it is and use it to pull sympathy and get her to leave me alone. Nod my head and abandon my seat for one of the chairs over by the opposing window.

All alone.

But when I open my mouth to do just that, nothing comes out. I mean . . . there’s worse company to keep than a gorgeous woman who seems—so far—to have a great personality.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t have a dog who died.”

Lightning strikes again and there are a few gasps around us. The woman beside me nods, almost as if she’s disappointed in me and I’m not sure why.

“I never claimed to have one either,” I continue. “You’re the one who jumped to conclusions.”

“You do have a dog, though, right?” she asks, as if it’s a very important question.

“And that matters why?”

“Because it says something about you if you have a dog.”

“Like what?” I ask, even though I’m of the same mind.

She shrugs. “That you think about more than just yourself. That you’re willing to share time and space. That you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty—I mean, picking up poop is a necessity.”

“What?” I all but spit my drink out.

“No one likes a person who isn’t willing to pick up their own dog’s poop.”

“You surprise me at every turn,” I mutter and stare into my glass before looking back to her.

“Good. Surprises are a good thing.” She flashes a megawatt smile. Who is this woman and why do I suddenly want her to not stop talking? “So? Dog? No dog? What?”

“No dog.” I hold up my hands. “But don’t judge. I love dogs. Big dogs. But that’s the downside to living in the city.” And why do I care that she’ll think differently of me because of my answer?

“The city?”

“Manhattan.”

She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t disclose whatever supposition her expression reflects. “And why is it the city’s fault?”

“Because dogs deserve a yard to run around in, and my place in a high-rise doesn’t exactly allow for that.”

“There are such things as dog walkers.”

“True, but taking a walk and having a yard to roam around in are two different things. So, is the dog inquisition over now?”

She purses her lips and gives me that look again but doesn’t elaborate on whatever she’s thinking. “Yes. Sure. But still . . . oh, I get it. I’m interrupting a pity party,” she murmurs with a soft nod, and then she redirects this random conversation once again. “Couldn’t pick a more apropos night to have one in my opinion. I mean, they don’t accomplish anything, but they’re definitely needed every now and again.”

“Yes. Sure. Something like that.”

I know the next thing she’s going to ask is, what’s wrong? She’s a woman. A woman with a vivid imagination no less.

But rather than doing the expected, she shoves out of her seat and looks around before heading to the other side of the bar. I watch her grab something before coming back and setting a wooden bowl—that looks like it’s from the 1970s—between us on the bar.

Engagement ring alert.

How did I not notice the rather large diamond ring on her left hand? And why does seeing it surprise me?