Page 82 of Final Proposal

He’s right. I’m not alone. I have a partner who is more than capable.

“Okay. Panic attack averted.” I sit on a cushy chair and put my feet up. “Seriously though, that, this . . . everything was so thoughtful. I truly think it’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.”

“Well, that’s a shame because that is a drop in the bucket on the things you deserve, Ellery.”

Silence falls on the line. It’s not awkward, but I feel like there is so much unspoken in the space of time that neither of us are comfortable putting a voice to.

“Should I be jealous of those books you plan on reading tonight?” he teases.

“Whoever picked them has good taste.”

“Is that code for they have great sex scenes in them?”

“Something like that.” We both laugh. I’m not sure why I half expected to hear a knock on the door and have him be talking to me on his cell from the other side of it.

But there is no knock.

There are no expectations.

And I’m not sure if I like that he doesn’t expect anything in return for his kindness or if I’m disappointed that he didn’t come share this night with me away from the inn.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “You doing this . . . it means a lot to me.”

“I meant what I said. You deserve the break and so much more. Thank you for letting me show you that. For letting me spoil you. Now go enjoy your night. Soak in the tub. Dance naked because nobody’s watching. Fill your glass back up. And then I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jesus. Someone needs to write that in one of my romance novels.

No. Wait. I don’t want them to because this moment is mine.

And I don’t want it to be taken away from me.

“Good night, Fordham the University.”

“Good night, Celery Ellery.”

Ellery

Seven Years Ago

“I don’t understand.” I blink over and over as if each closure and opening of my eyes will change the scene before me.

Will make me hear something different.

“You don’t need to understand, Elle. All you need to know is this, us . . . it’s over.”

He’s going to propose to you tonight, Ellery. Josh Fitzpatrick is going to ask you to marry him, and then you’ll live happily ever after and be ridiculously in love.

Was it only hours ago that my best friend told me that in her singsong voice? How did I go from that to this? From elation to devastation? From getting a manicure so my nails looked perfect in pictures to show off my new ring to staring at the polish and wanting to vomit?

“Josh. I—don’t—”

“I met someone else.”

“What do you mean you met someone else?” I shout, tears welling in my eyes and the hollowness of my voice echoing in my head.

“Just like it sounds. I met another woman.”

I scrub a hand over my face and try to process the last few minutes. “You cheated on me?”