Page 86 of Fake Crown

“Would the flowers need to be in the shape of a dick?”

“I would like to hear you order that arrangement,” I say as I slide into the car, and when he gets into the driver’s seat, I continue, “but I don’t need for it to actually exist.”

He starts the car and drives out of my parking lot along familiar roads near campus, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out where we’re headed. We park under the blue sign, but the restaurant looks deserted.

“I think they’re closed,” I say, checking my watch. “Weekdays they’re done at nine.”

“Let’s go check,” he says, and he circles the car to open my door and help me across the icy surface.

The sign is flipped at the entrance, and I shrug. “Closed.” There are lots of other places we can eat at, even if I’m touched he chose my favorite spot.

Brent tugs on the door, and he gives me a mischievous smile. “Open.” He steps back and waves me in. “Ladies first.”

As soon as I’m in the door, I’m struck by how different the place looks. There are fairy lights strung across the ceiling, and there are vases brimming with roses strewn around the main eating area. I press my hand to my chest, and another swell of emotion threatens to overwhelm me.

“Turns out, I already started the tradition of a truckload of I’m-a-dick roses without realizing it was going to be our thing.”

My purse and coat hit the floor for a second time as I whirl around and kiss him. He slides his hands into my hair and returns the kiss with the same fiery passion I feel. If I wasn’t sure Monty and his wife were lurking somewhere, I’d be trying to convince him that a quicky on or against any surface in this place was the best way to make sure both his heads are in the right places.

The sound of the kitchen door swinging open makes me draw away from Brent, but this time he swipes my coat and purse off the floor for me while I turn to greet Monty.

“Your boyfriend and his teammates came here to decorate for what I gather is a special occasion?” Monty quirks his eyebrows at the two of us.

“Special occasion?” I turn to Brent with a furrowed brow.

“You’ll see,” he says, and he tips his chin toward the table we sat at the last time we came.

I weave through the empty restaurant to our table, and I slide into my chair. “How did you convince them to let you do this?” I ask.

“Easy,” he says. “You’re his favorite customer.”

Surrounded by my favorite flowers in my favorite restaurant which reminds me of my favorite country on a date with my favorite guy. Sheer perfection.

“Did I nail it?” he asks.

“Bang, bang, bang, baby.” I grin.

I’m still staring at Brent in amazement when Monty delivers the first dish. One of my favorite chicken dishes, of course. When Brent gestures for me to dig in first, I don’t hesitate.

The food comes and goes while Brent and I chat about our holidays, our family, and what’s happening with our classes. It’s easy, and the conversation reminds me of how natural it’s been from the first weekend for us to open ourselves up to each other. Maybe Destiny is right that everyone feels what they feel when they feel it. With him, it felt different almost right away.

When we met at the airport, I was in love with his outer package. Tall, fit, smoldering. As the weeks wore on, and we peeled away layers of each other with our clothes, the outer package was matched by an equal love for his mind and soul. There’s no part of him that I don’t love.

That thought would have terrified me when we met, and it still causes my heart to race to verbalize it. But I definitely feel it.

We’re lingering over dessert when Brent takes a small velvet box out of his suit pocket and slides it across the table. It’s the exact shape and size of a ring box, and I raise my startled gaze to his.

He wouldn’t, would he?

“No need to look like a deer about to get hit by a Mac truck. I’m not skipping from fake dating to getting married.”

I press a hand to my chest and breathe a sigh of relief. Dating is one thing, but marriage is something else entirely.

“It was supposed to be a Christmas present for you, but that didn’t quite go to plan. Instead, it’s an anniversary present.”

“Anniversary?” I laugh.

“Happy day zero,” he says, and he pushes the box closer with his index finger. “You and I have been real for a while, a long while, but I want it to be official.”