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CHAPTER 13

NAOMI

It’s been three days since Wyatt broke Stellan’s nose, and Silver Spoon Falls has returned to its default setting of sleepy and boring and I’m enjoying the change of pace.

The sun set not long ago and Wyatt is standing next to sofa, close enough to touch from where I’m sitting. He’s wearing old jeans and a tight black t-shirt that shows off all his muscles. He’s been acting twitchy for the last hour and I’m starting to wonder what’s going on. He keeps checking his phone, adjusting the thermostat, running his hand through his hair. I try not to stare but I do, because watching him fuss around our house is secretly turning me on.

He finally blows out his breath and kneels down in front of me. “Are you okay?” I ask.

I notice sweat shining on his brow and wonder what is going on. He glances at me, then away, then back again. “I have something for you,” he finally growls, and pulls a tiny blue box from his pocket.

My brain short circuits and I can’t breathe.

He pops the box open I gasp at the size of the diamond. It’s huge, and beautiful. And freaking perfect. The thought of Wyatt picking this out by himself warms my heart.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. He just holds it out, waiting. His hand is steady but his jaw is flexing, the only sign he’s not actually made of granite. “I’ve been dreaming about this moment since the first night I saw you,” he says. His voice is low. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

I blink, and then blink again, because this is not something I know how to process. “You’re serious,” I say, but it comes out as a question, because part of me is still not convinced this is all a dream.

His lips twitch, but he manages to keep a straight face. “Dead serious.” He slips the ring onto my finger, and it fits perfectly. “I want to make you mine. Today, tomorrow, for every day I get.”

I still can’t process what’s happening. I laugh, a weird, breathless sound. “You want to marry me?”

He nods, and for the first time I see a flicker of real fear in his eyes. Not the kind of fear that comes from staring down a loaded gun or an angry groupie. It’s the kind of fear that comes from putting your heart on the line and hoping to god it doesn’t get run over by a truck.

I look down at the ring, turning my hand so the diamond catches the light. It’s a thing of beauty, and it looks obscene and beautiful and totally right on my finger. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely focus.

He is still waiting. The silence stretches out until it’s just him, me, and the sound of my own heartbeat thumping in my ears.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” I finally whisper. And then, because the inside of my head is chaos and the only way out is through, I grab his face and kiss him with everything I have.

It’s not a delicate kiss. It’s the kind that bruises lips and knocks teeth and leaves both of us panting. His hands tangle in my hair, one arm wrapping so tight around my waist I’m pretty sure I’ll have fingerprints tomorrow.

When we finally come up for air, we’re both breathless and a little stunned.

We end up collapsed together on the couch, me half in his lap, our bodies tangled up and warm. I rest my head on his shoulder and stare at my hand, watching the ring sparkle in the lamplight.

For a while, neither of us says anything. There is nothing left to say. The world outside could be burning down, but here in this room, I am safe and whole for the first time since I can remember.

Finally, I say, “We’re going to have to tell my mom.”

He snorts. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

“Oh come on, you know she loves you.” I pause, considering. “She’s going to want to plan the wedding right away.”

“As long as you’re happy with the wedding, I don’t care.” He shrugs, lips pressed to my forehead. “You can have whatever kind of wedding you want, fever. Elvis chapel in Vegas, courthouse, backyard barbecue. As long as you show up, I’m happy.”

I close my eyes, thinking about it. I don’t want a big wedding. I don’t want to wear a poofy dress and pretend to care about centerpieces. I want to marry him somewhere beautiful, somewhere I can walk barefoot and not worry about tripping over my own dress.

“Can we get married on a beach?” I ask.

He grins, slow and easy. “We can do it tomorrow if you want.”

I smile, feeling the last of the nerves bleed away. “I’ll need at least a month to prep. Minimum.”

“Fine,” he says. “But not a minute longer.”

At some point, I tell him I’m thinking about going back to school for maybe law, or counseling, or something that would help women like Casey. He says he thinks I’d be amazing, that I could do anything, and thank my lucky stars Wyatt Byrne walked into my life.