“Sloane—” I began.
“Okay. This is weirder than a pile of dead rats,” she decided, still holding on to me and frowning at her own blossom-laden cherry tree. “Where did this come from?”
“From two possibly well-meaning idiots who are about to meet their maker. Come here.” We waded through the avalanche of pink petals to the porch swing. There, on a table at least, was the champagne I’d ordered. Next to it was a bottle of bourbon that I hadn’t, and in front of both bottles was a greasy Dino’s pizza box.
I knew I should have called Stef, not Knox and Nash. But Stef was busy with his own grand gesture.
“Lucian, what the hell is going on?” Sloane demanded, opening the pizza box with suspicion.
A movement in the shrubbery caught my eye. Knox Morgan, wearing camouflage and green face paint, rose out of a rhododendron with his phone. He gave me the thumbs-up.
“What. The. Fuck?” I mouthed to him.
“Video, asshole,” he mouthed back, pointing at his phone.
I leaned over the railing and shoved him back into the bush.
“Lucian?” Sloane repeated.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” I said, returning to her side.
My heart was in my throat. I could feel my heartbeat in my head as I closed the distance between us.
I had almost reached her when the opening bars of Shania Twain’s “You’re Still the One” sounded from a fat spruce on the opposite side of the porch steps. I spotted the torso of Nash’s uniform peeking out from behind the evergreen. He was holding the speaker of his phone up to a bullhorn.
This was why people hired professionals.
“Why is there booze and pizza and a half ton of cherry blossoms on my front porch?” Sloane asked nervously.
I took a deep breath. “Loving you has been a touchstone for more than half my life. But being loved by you? That’s a fucking miracle. You, Pixie, are my fucking miracle.”
Sloane took a shuddery inhale and shook her head. “I’m not mentally ready for this, Lucian,” she whispered.
“Yes, you are. And so am I. Marry me, Sloane.”
She brought her hands to her eyes, still shaking her head. “What?” she croaked.
“You heard me. I’d get down on one knee, but I don’t know if I’d be able to get back up right now. Marry me. Be my wife. Remind me every day that I’m better than I think I am. Show me what it’s like to be loved by you. Because that’s all I ever wanted. To be good enough for you.”
I skimmed my hand over her cheek, then threaded my fingers into her hair.
She let out a choked sob.
“Don’t cry, Pixie,” I begged, brushing my lips to her forehead. “It kills me when you cry.”
“Don’t be so sweet then,” she said accusingly.
“Just hold on a little bit longer and we can go back to hurling insults,” I promised.
“Okay,” she said on a hiccupping little sigh.
“Sloane Walton, I have loved you for so long I don’t remember what my life was like before my heart was yours. It’s changed over the years. But I’ve loved you as a friend, an enemy, a lover. It would be my greatest honor in this lifetime if you would let me love you as my wife.”
Tears slid down her cheeks one after the other.
“Marry me, Sloane. Be my wife. Let me share your life up close. Let me protect you and love you like I’m ready to.”
I let go of her to retrieve the box from my pocket. It opened with a quiet snick.
The noise that came out of her mouth was a wheezing, keening moan that sounded like a bagpipe running full speed into an accordion.
A second later, she hurled herself into my arms, knocking me back a step.
“I’m taking this as a yes?” I said between the kisses she landed on my cheeks and mouth.
She pulled back and cupped my face in her hands. “Yes!” she shouted.
I chuckled softly. “Let me put the ring on you, Pix.”
“God, I wish you hadn’t just had a penisectomy,” she said, holding out one shaking hand.
We would be editing that out of the engagement video, I decided as I slid the cool, smooth band onto her finger.
“Jesus. It weighs, like, five pounds,” she said, reverently holding her hand up so the greedy diamond could catch the spring sunlight.
“I’ll get you another one to wear on the other hand so you’ll be even,” I promised as a joy I’d never known bloomed inside my chest.
“Lucian?” she said, her voice breaking.
“You’re not having second thoughts already, are you? I thought the whole vasectomy reversal thing would buy me until at least tomorrow before you started panicking.”
She shook her head, fresh tears falling. “There’s something you need to know.”
I held her by the upper arms. “What? I’ll fix it or buy it or destroy it.”
“I love you.”
Her words, the sincerity behind them, had my stomach throwing itself off a cliff.
“Say it again,” I ordered gruffly.
Her smile was a sunbeam that warmed the darkest corners of my heart.
“I love you, Lucian Freaking Rollins. I always have. I always will.”
I kissed her. Hard. I crushed my mouth to hers as I yanked her body to mine.
“Chief, we’ve got a 10–91A of the rooster variety at the Pop ’N Stop again.” The static-filled radio announcement drowned out Shania.
“Shit, sorry, Lucy,” Nash said through the bullhorn.
Sloane grinned up at me, and once again, I basked in the feeling of being the hero instead of the villain. “Your smile makes me love you even more,” I confessed.
“Back at you, big guy.”
“I can’t wait to wake up tomorrow and remember this,” I admitted.
“I love you, Lucian. Even if you wear suits to bed and are snooty about peanut butter brands.”
“And I love you, Sloane. Even if you drive me absolutely insane twenty-four hours a day for the rest of my life.”
“I really wish we could have sex right now,” she said. “But I appreciate the long game.”
“I’ll make up for it the second the doctor or Google gives the okay. Whichever is first.”
I kissed her again, long and hard.
“Naomi is gonna kick my ass for not telling her about this,” I heard Knox mutter distantly.
“Just tell her it was man code,” Nash advised.
“My mom is going to freak out,” Sloane predicted.
Karen: Welcome to the family, my favorite soon-to-be son-in-law!
Maeve: Don’t fuck things up.
Chloe: Uncle Lucian, as junior bridesmaid, here are a few of the designer dresses I think I would look best in for the ceremony and reception.
46
Books Save Lives
Sloane
Stop jiggling your leg,” Jeremiah ordered Lina, who looked as if she were about to bolt from his salon chair.
It was the perfect spring afternoon, and we were at Whiskey Clipper, Knockemout’s hip barber shop/salon, getting glammed for Lina and Nash’s wedding rehearsal that evening. The cool barber shop/salon was hopping on a Friday afternoon. Knox’s basset hound, Waylon, flattened himself on the floor with a chew bone while Knox was giving Vernon Quigg’s lustrous mustache a trim. Naomi was oohing and aahing over the sleek updo stylist Anastasia was assembling.
Knox’s business manager and Jeremiah’s sister, Fi, was huddled behind the front desk’s computer with Waylay as the twelve-year-old walked her through the new scheduling software.
Stef and I were on the leather couch under the front window, watching the chaos. My hair was done in a high, flirty ponytail that I gleefully knew my fiancé, Lucian Freaking Rollins, would wrap around his fist before the night was over.
The bride glared in the mirror at Jeremiah as he ruffled her short dark hair this way and that. “I’m not jiggling. You’re jiggling.”
“It’s kind of fun watching the calm, collected Lina tiptoe into a meltdown,” I mused.
Stef took a pensive sip of his whiskey and continued to frown.
“I’m not having a meltdown,” Lina said, taking obvious offense.
“Yeah, you are,” everyone in the shop except for Stef chorused.
“All of you can bite me,” she grumbled, crossing her arms under the cape.