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He opens the box, and the ring is stunning. A deep, dark stone set in a vintage gold band that looks like it was made to sit on my hand.
“I don’t need a big moment,” he continues. “I just need you. So, what do you say? Will you marry me, Red?”
My knees nearly give out, but I manage to stay upright, mostly because I’m too stunned to move.
“Holy shit,” I say again, because apparently that’s all my brain is capable of processing right now. “You’re really doing this. On my linoleum floor. While the garlic knots are getting cold.”
He grins. “You said you liked surprises.”
And then I’m laughing, crying, nodding like an absolute maniac. “Yes! God, yes, Beau. Of course I’ll marry you.”
He slips the ring on my finger, his hands shaking just the tiniest bit, which undoes me completely—and then I crash into him, knocking us both to the floor in a mess of limbs and laughter.
“Guess this makes me your problem forever,” I whisper against his mouth.
“Baby,” he murmurs, “that was always the plan.”
I thread my fingers into his hair and kiss him until the world blurs out. We’re both breathless, and a little bit idiotic. Smiling, clutching, vibrating with that giddy adrenaline you only feel after a really good concert or a really bad decision. Or, apparently, when you agree to marry your soulmate in the kitchen on a Tuesday.
We’re still sprawled on the floor, food getting cold an arm’s length away. The world outside could be burning down for all I care, and I wouldn’t move from this spot.
Eventually, I surface, lips tingling, head spinning.
“Are you crying?” he whispers into my hair.
“Absolutely not.” Which, to be clear, is a lie. I am in fact crying, but also laughing mid-hiccup, which is an extremely dignified way to accept a marriage proposal.
He holds me tighter. “You’re a mess, Whitley Collins.”
“And you wouldn’t have it any other way,” I shoot back, wiping my cheek on his sleeve for good measure.
He grins, then glances at my hand. “You gonna keep crying every time I look at you?”
“Probably.”
He props himself up over me, thumb swiping at the corner of my eye. “You know I love you, right?”
“Yeah. I know,” I reply, voice barely a whisper, because the happiness is so enormous I don’t trust myself not to absolutely lose it. “But definitely not more than I love you.”
He presses his lips to my forehead, smiling against my skin, and everything inside me goes perfectly still.
I breathe him in. His weight, his warmth, the way he anchors me without ever asking me to be anything but exactly this—tear-streaked and laughing and hopelessly in love.
epilogue
. . .
Whitley
Five Years Later
There’s glitter everywhere. The sparkles swirl around tiny, sticky fingers and tumble like confetti from an overenthusiastic fairy.
Beau’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes soft as he watches our three-year-old, Emma, orchestrate her glitter massacre with all the ferocity of a tiny tornado. Her brunette hair tumbles in wild, tangled curls that catch the light just right, framing a face flushed pink from the afternoon sun and pure, unfiltered mischief. Her wide eyes—his eyes, no doubt—gleam with that fierce, stubborn spark that means trouble in the sweetest way. She’s utterly unconcerned about the mess she’s making.
I lean against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee that’s now room temperature because five minutes ago, I was locked in a losing battle with our one-year-old, Tristan, to keep his pants on. Spoiler alert—the toddler won. His soft brown hair is a wild little halo that makes him look like a pint-sized troublemaker in training. But it’s those bright, hazel eyes that keep me coming back for more.
“She’s definitely got your stubborn streak,” I say, nodding at Emma as she pauses, glitter clinging to her sticky hands like a badge of honor.
