Once she’s composed herself, she says softly, “Gary, please. Beau is a tier one operator. He would never be so obvious.”
She sends me a sly wink at the end of her sentence. A dry laugh lurches from me. Sarcastic Bailey never fails to knock me off my feet. And it would appear I’m never living that one down.
“Yeah. My years spent in the special forces impress most people. Bailey though? Bailey just makes fun of me for it.”
“You could use someone who is a little less impressed with you,” Gary grumbles with a light slur as he takes another drink.
My fingers rap against the top of the bar. “Wow. You’re on a roll today.”
The man shoots his eyes to the ceiling before they land on my hand and shift to Bailey’s. “Hang on. Please tell me you didn’t propose to her without a ring. Doubt you need her daddy’s permission, but I’ll kick your ass if you didn’t buy a ring for her.”
Bailey’s lips twitch, and she props her hands on her hips, looking all smug. She’s enjoying watching Gary give me the gears.
Joke’s on her, though.
I may not have proposed with a ring, but one quick trip into the city fixed that.
“I proposed with one, but Bailey told me the diamond wasn’t big enough and to take it back.”
Her foot stomps. “I did not!”
“Gary, you should have heard her. Said something about how she wanted a diamond so big that she could barely lift her arm.”
He nods. “That’s exactly what she deserves.”
“You guys really think I care about that?” She’s downright indignant, which is why pulling out the small green velvet box is so damn satisfying.
“I agree with you, Gary.” I slide the box across the bar top. “So I went back and got a different one.”
Bailey’s lips roll together as she regards it, hands still propped on her hips. The tight squeeze of her fingers suggests she’s holding herself back from grabbing the ring.
“Well, girl? You gonna show us the goods?”
With a dramatic sigh, Bailey steps forward and swipes the box from the bar. She seems indifferent. Truthfully, she isn’t a great actress.
Which is why the way her mouth pops open when she sees the ring for the first time is so damn satisfying. Her cheeks turn pink and her hand quakes, but her eyes stay locked on the platinum ring with a massive teardrop-shaped diamond. Smaller diamonds frame the center stone. Smaller diamonds line the band. It’s totally over the top, and I love that for her.
“What is this?”
“A diamond so big your arm will hurt every time you pour a pint.”
“It’s not real.”
Her head shakes and I laugh. “It’s very real.”
“How much did you spend?” She sounds panicked now. I should have guessed this would freak her out.
“I know a guy. I got a good deal.”
“What’s a good deal?” Her onyx eyes snap to mine, glistening. “It’s too much. It’s way, way too much.”
She leans across the bar and presses the box back into my hand, so I take it.
But in one quick move, I grab her left wrist and pull the ring from the box. I slide it onto her shaking finger, alarmingly satisfied by how huge it is on her slender digit.
She looks very engaged wearing that rock, and it has the caveman inside of me beating his proverbial chest.
Someone should tell him this is fake.
“No, Bailey. It’s perfect.” I gently stroke my thumb over the delicate bone in her wrist. We haven’t really touched yet, and I’m not entirely sure how or where to start. Especially after the virgin confession. It’s been a long time since I was one, and I’ve damn near forgotten what it was like.
When she meets my gaze, she’s back to looking alarmed. Worried. She’s the shy, awkward girl I remember, not the focused, funny woman she’s slowly blossoming into.
“You deserve this.”
“And shit, if it doesn’t work out, you could pawn that sucker for a pretty penny,” Gary adds drunkenly, which makes her laugh.
Then she turns her palm to my wrist and gives me a gentle squeeze to go with her sweet smile. She sucks in a startled breath when I lift her hand and kiss the top of it. Soft, but longer than is necessary. I keep my eyes on hers, giving her a look I shouldn’t.
A look that stills the air between us.
When I wink at her, she turns the prettiest shade of pink and yanks her hand back like she’s touched something scorching hot. Then she gets back to work. And I spend the entire night drinking chamomile tea and watching patrons gawk at the massive rock on Bailey’s finger. They’re too stunned to ask questions but too impolite to look away.
Every time she catches someone staring, I see the corners of her mouth twitch before she presses her lips together and averts her gaze.
And that right there makes the ring worth the ridiculous price tag. I’ve saved my money for years and was never sure what I wanted to spend it on.
This seemed like a worthy investment.
I shoot up in bed, ready to fight, but the sheets tangled around my waist stop me. For a moment, panic engulfs me. I need to run, need my legs to move, but they betray me, leaving me helpless. I’ve mussed my bedding in a way that makes no sense unless I was flat-out wrestling with it. My pillow is damp with sweat, and my skin is slick with it.
My feet burn like I’ve just walked over the flames.
Every fucking time, it’s 2:11 a.m.
“Fuck.” I flop down, pressing the heels of my palms into my sockets as I focus on stabilizing my breathing.
The dream is always the same.
I have the same urge to fight, to run, to spring into action, but my body fails me, and I end up crawling or dragging myself. I’m always in the desert. Micah is always there, on the brink of death.
And I always feel like I need to save him.
It’s irrelevant that I did save him. My brain takes me back to that feeling of pure helplessness, the eternal high alarm with no reprieve. While we were camped out in that cave for two weeks, I suppressed those emotions, but they haunt me now.
I kick the sheets off. Even with air conditioning, I’m sweltering. Since I found Bailey in the river that night, I fantasize about dipping into the cold water and cooling this phantom burning sensation that feels all too real. I fantasize about relaxing enough to feel safe while doing it.
I’m drawn to the river now. I keep finding myself down there, not exactly remembering the path I took or when I arrived.
Maybe it’s the water. Maybe it’s the dark.
Maybe it’s Bailey.
Regardless of what it is, I head there again tonight. I don’t even bother with socks. As I make my way down the path to the shore, my feet feel like they are on fire, the freshly grafted skin rubbing against the fabric inside my shoes.
When I get almost to the bottom, I’m not alone.
Across the creek, against the riverbank, sits Bailey, in the same frilly white cotton dress she wore at work tonight. Her cheek rests on a balled-up sweater that covers the crest of her bent knees. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her shins. Like she’s trying to be as small as possible.
In the moonlight, I can see her ring gleaming.
“Bailey?” I call her name, even though I already know it’s her.
Her head snaps up, body going rigid. Then her hand flies up, one finger to her lips, giving me the international symbol for shut the fuck up.
I’m instantly on high alert, my heart rate skyrocketing back to the level it was after my recurring nightmare. I prowl down the rest of the hill, making as little noise as possible on the rocky shore. When I get to the water and look over at her, her eyes are wide. Body still.
I’m about to say something, but she taps her finger against her lips again.
Her signal draws my eyes down to the water. My white sneakers toe the water line.
Logically, I know my feet have healed. I’ve been given the go-ahead to swim—to live my life—but I just haven’t been able to let go of the anxiety.