“I don’t know,” he said, sighing relief. “But I’m so glad you didn’t!”
She kissed every square inch of his face, tickling him with the strands of her damp hair that hung forward in heavy clumps. He rolled her over and kissed her earlobe.
“Wanna see the ring?” he whispered softly in her ear.
“There’s a ring, too?!”
He laughed and sat up. “Oh, Bailey. You crazy thing. What kind of dipshit proposes without a ring?”
She sat up, too, and held out her hand.
“I’ve no idea. But I’m glad you’re not a dipshit. Gimme gimme.”
“Greedy thing, too,” he mumbled as he pulled the box from his pants pocket. “Turn that hand over.”
She did, and then he instructed her to close her eyes. She complied, and he slid the ring on her finger. A little big, he thought with the tiniest disappointment. He was going for perfection, but then he remembered his actual proposal. Oh well.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
She hesitated a moment.
“I’ll love whatever it is,” she said finally.
He chuckled. “You better tell me if you don’t like it. I mean it, Bailey. I want you to have what you like.”
She opened her eyes and gasped.
“Reece!”
“Hmm?”
“Reece!” she squealed again.
“You like?”
“Oh my God! It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen!”
He nodded. Erica was right. Why did he ever doubt her? It was only for a mere second, but still. Should he tell her or take all the credit? He couldn’t help imagining what she’d do to him later in bed if she thought he was solely responsible for choosing that ring. But that’s deceptive, Reece, and you’re better than that. And anyway, she may do those things to you tonight regardless.
“Erica helped,” he admitted.
Bailey continued staring at the sparkly jewel on her finger. “Oh, I know she did.”
Reece scowled. “How?”
“Reece, I only told her a trillion times the kind of engagement ring I wanted. I’ve wanted a princess cut solitaire since I was ten.”
“Ten, huh?” he asked. “I wanted baseball cards and bubblegum.”
She laughed.
“You girls are a mess,” he said. “A hot mess.”
“You did not just say that,” Bailey replied. “You’re over thirty, hon. You can’t talk like that anymore.”
“Whatever. You gonna give me something good tonight?”
“Oh, you mean for the ring?” she asked.
He nodded.
“How about baseball cards and bubblegum?”
“That’s cute. How about your *?”
“Reece! That’s not very romantic!”
“I can’t think of anything more romantic, actually,” he countered. He stood up and helped Bailey to her feet. He grabbed the champagne and headed for the patio.
“I meant the way you said it,” she replied, following after.
“What am I supposed to call it?” he asked. He pulled out her chair and poured her a glass of champagne.
“I dunno,” she confessed.
“Then * it is. And anyway, I like that word—*. I like to whisper it.” He bent low and kissed her cheek. “Bailey, I want your *,” he whispered.
She held up her finger. “Steak first.”
He laughed and stood up.
“I see. Priorities,” he mumbled and served his first steak to his new fiancée.
The steak was perfection. The champagne was perfection. The little cakes from that bakery I love were perfection. The ring . . . well, the ring was out of this world. I couldn’t stop staring at it throughout dinner, and I only half-listened to the things Reece said. He figured out how to get my full attention through other means, however.
He led me to the pergola where dessert wine awaited us, nestled in another one of my tin buckets.
“I’m already tipsy, Reece,” I said when he opened the bottle.
“Oh, I know it,” he replied, wiggling his eyebrows.
I collapsed on the couch and pulled up my bare feet.
“Comfy?” he asked.
I nodded.
“It’s a little hot out here, isn’t it?”
I nodded again.
“You should maybe take your clothes off,” he suggested.
I laughed. “I told you about Soledad.”
“It’s dark. She can’t see anything,” Reece argued.
“I dunno . . .”
“For Christ’s sake, Bailey. I’m gonna make you live a little.”
“Hey! Now wait just a minute, buster! I do live. I recall being the surfer in this relationship. Not you.”
“Oh my God,” Reece replied, his face lighting up. “That’s perfect! Let’s fuck on your surfboard!”
I stared at him.
“Seriously. Let’s just—” He thrust his hips forward a few times. “—just fucking go at it on your surfboard.”
“Oh my God,” I mumbled.
“What? It’s totally hot.”
“Do you have any idea what my custom board cost? Any clue at all?”
Reece shook his head.
“Too much to ruin it by fucking on it,” I said.
“We’ll lay it on that patch of grass over there,” Reece explained.
“We’ll crack it!”
“Now that’s way hot.”
“Reece . . .”
“Fine. Take your pants off,” he ordered.
“I’m not getting naked out here,” I argued.
“Bailey, pants off. Now.”
“No way, José.”
Reece dropped the bottle back in the bucket and grabbed my wrist.
“Honor and obey, missy,” he teased.
“Very funny. And we’re not married yet,” I replied.
“Engagements in some cultures are practically the same as marriage.” He tugged on my arm gently, but I resisted his pull.
“Yeah? Well, this is American culture. And the two are totally different.”
“Oh, stop teasing me already,” Reece said. “You know you like when I tell you what to do. Take those pants off and come sit on my face.”
“Reece!”
“Bailey!”
I huffed.
“I’m not giving you the option,” he said.
And he didn’t. But I made him work for it. I broke free of his grasp and tore through the yard. I evaded him for a bit—I still knew all the little nuances of our back yard better than he did—but he eventually nabbed me. And he wasn’t delicate about it. He threw me over his shoulder and carried me to the small patch of grass in the middle of our yard. He set me on my feet and told me not to talk.
“But Reece,” I began.
“Bailey Mitchell, I swear to God . . .”