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Unknown: Wink wink. Nudge nudge.
Unknown: Btw. She’s also in denial, so that should be fun to deal with. Good luck.
Emojis. Many, seemingly random, emojis.
Brushing my teeth with a spare toothbrush in the guest room down the hall from my room, I reread the message I got yesterday, right after Briar stopped pacing outside by the pavilion. For over an hour.
I did wonder what she was talking on the phone about for so long. Every time I dragged my attention away from work to look outside, she seemed to be focused on another lap, phone still crushed to her ear.
Never in a million years would I have thought she was spending so long discussing me.
The corner of my mouth tips up as I stuff my phone in my pocket and rinse out my mouth.
The black market ball starts this afternoon.
We’ll make contact with our target and get whatever we need to unravel the Maxim Project before tonight. Before tonight, we attain their motive, their location, everything. Before tomorrow, we retrieve our hostages. Shortly after I’m done dealing with my parents, I’ll invite Briar’s over.
So we can discuss wedding plans.
The ring I bought last night winks at me from the nightstand when I leave the bathroom, and I snap the box closed before tucking it in my other pocket, with my burner. Parting two blinds, I peer out at the front driveway, where Briar’s car remains untouched since last I saw it when I came home from the jewelers.
This is probably too far. Definitely, rather.
I skim my thumb under my lip as I release the blinds.
Oh well.
Toying with clever ways to propose, I exit my room in the same instant Briar exits hers. Looking dazed and beautifully disheveled, she combs her fingers through her hair. Mercifully, she’s wearing actual clothes today. One of her Target outfits. A loose gray top and an ash gray pair of jeans. She’s barefoot.
And precious.
I want to wrap her up and press her into my couch again, the wall, my bed. Any of the various surfaces she can’t seem to stop herself from sitting on. I want to drop to one knee right now and ask her to be my wife.
But leading with desperation isn’t exactly her MO, and I am trying my best to beat her at what she considers to be her own game.
She notices me, and her lips part, so I turn toward the stairs.
“Wait.” Silent footsteps catch up to me, and her hand latches onto my shirt. “Rowan.”
“Yes, love?”
Her fist twists my shirt, stretching it out. “Don’t you dare.”
“I take it my bed smells like you?”
Her forehead lands against my back. “Sure.”
“I appreciate your services. What can I help you with this morning?”
Somehow, her sigh flows through the cotton of my shirt and hits my back. “I guess you’re still acting weird. I just wanted to know what you meant last night. You think you’re real cute and mysterious, but you’re just treating me like an idiot when you could mean literally anything. I can’t read your mind.”
“Were you up all night trying to anyway?” I look over my shoulder at her when she rests her cheek against me, eyes downcast.
“Can’t you just tell me what you meant? Stop being an—” She swears. Weariness consumes her, and she really has no business being so beautiful.
“You want me to tell you? And rob myself of living rent-free in your brain?” I plow on, and she trips after me. “Absolutely not.”
Her presence bumps down every step as she tags along behind me. On the lower floors, laughter, discussions, and warmth already pervade. Jokes over coffee. Plans over bagels. Business as usual. Except, until very recently, none of this was usual.
