He was aware of the others shifting restlessly beside him—they’d been none too happy when Poppy had run back to New York and taken his heart with her—no matter how many times he’d assured them that it was as much his fault as hers. In fact, Jared looked like he was going to say something, but a quick look from Wyatt shut him up.
He followed her to the door, making sure to catch the attention of the band’s lead singer, to let him know he’d be back. The kid smiled a mile wide and sent him a huge thumbs up that he really hoped didn’t end up blowing his anonymity all to hell as half the bar turned to look at him.
Then again, he had better things to worry about than whether or not he was going to get swamped by fans. Things like what Poppy was doing in Austin and why she wanted to talk to him and—
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out the second they got outside, the words tumbling over each other in her haste to get them out. “I should have told you. It was wrong of me to lie to you and wrong of me to push you to talk to me when I wasn’t being truthful with you. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
That wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear, and for long seconds he couldn’t answer, not even to accept her apology. But then his brain finally kicked in and he said, “No. I get why you didn’t tell me. It took me a few days to calm down but…I can see why you thought it would only put more pressure on me. I shouldn’t have yelled at you the way I did. Shouldn’t have said those things to you. There’s no excuse for that.” He could still see her face when she asked if he was calling her a whore, and it killed him.
“Yeah, but still. I was wrong not to give you the benefit of the doubt. I should have tried to talk to you after I got to know you.”
“Okay. Sure. Thanks.” He didn’t know what else to say. He knew what he wanted to do—he wanted to drop to his knees in front of her and make her come three or a half dozen times right here in the middle of the Spotlight parking lot. He just wasn’t sure she’d be amenable to that. After all, it was a long way from apologizing to letting a guy go down on you.
He waited for her to say something else, to make some kind of move that told him how he should respond. But all she did was stand there looking at him, and the hope he’d felt upon first seeing her started to whither.
“I should probably go back in, then,” he said a little awkwardly. “I came here to see those kids play—I don’t want them to think I skipped out on them after two songs.”
“Right, of course.” She stepped back. “Go ahead.”
“But thanks for coming to talk to me. It means a lot.”
Feeling like absolute shit, he gave her the best smile he could muster, then forced himself to turn away. To head back inside the club.
He never made it. Instead, she threw herself at him so hard he stumbled. And then she was there, pressed against him, her arms wrapped around his waist and her face nuzzled into his neck.
“I love you,” she murmured into his skin. “I love you and I’m sorry and I want to try again. Please, please let me try again.”
He pulled her away from him—not because he didn’t want her touching him, but because he wanted to make sure he’d heard right. Wanted to make sure she meant what he thought she did.
“Say it again,” he told her, voice hoarse with more emotion than he had let himself feel in a long, long time. Maybe in forever.
She bit her lip, looked at him out of eyes he knew were going to break his heart again and again through the years—in the best possible way. “I said I love you,” Poppy told him. “I love you so much, and I know it isn’t going to be easy. I know we’re going to screw up. But I promise you, no matter what happens, that I’ll be honest with you. That I’ll be here for you. If you relapse, if you decide you don’t want to drum anymore, whatever it is. I promise, I’ll be here. I love you, and if you’ll have me, I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”
“Wait.” Suddenly he couldn’t feel his hands. “Wait. Wait just a minute. Are you proposing to me?”
She turned pale under the parking lot lights. “Ummm… Do you want me to be proposing to you?”
“It doesn’t work that way! You can’t answer a question with a question!” he told her, panic and joy and love welling up in him like a crescendo. “Especially not a question like that!”
“Why not? You just did.”
“I did not. I asked— Oh.” So she had been proposing to him. Holy shit. Holy. Shit.
“I know. It’s too soon. And we’re a mess.” She started backing away. “I’m sorry. Forget I asked. Just—”
“I hate to be the one to break this to you, sweetheart, but I’m pretty sure there are no takebacks on wedding proposals.”
“Oh, yeah? What are you, the wedding proposal police? Since when have you been so big on rules anyway?”
“Since the woman I am head over heels in love with just asked me to marry her. You don’t actually think I’m going to let you weasel out of it so easily, do you?”
“I don’t weasel out— Wait a minute.” If possible, she turned even paler. “You love me?”
“Of course I love you! You’re smart and funny and kind and warm and beautiful, inside and out. Plus you have amazing taste in music and you love my band. How the fuck could I not love you?”