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Her eyes shine. “Too cheesy?”

I shake my head. “Not even close.”

“I need one more.”

“Another one?” She asks, looking at the books.

“One for me. One for Darcy.”

She bursts out laughing. “You're buying my book for my cat?”

“Our cat. And yes. Tried bringing him instead, but Avery said he wasn't welcome.”

“Because he's a cat.”

“Apparently, no pets allowed includes the author's emotional support literary critic.”

Delaney shakes her head, still laughing.

“What am I supposed to write in his?”

“Something nice. He's sensitive.”

She fills out the book and slides it back.

I lean across the table and kiss her.

Somewhere behind me, Mercer whistles.

Avery cheers.

And Beckett yells something about getting a room.

Her parents applaud.

I ignore every one of them.

Because a year ago, Delaney Beckett was afraid to call herself a writer.

Tonight, there's a line of people waiting to read her words.

And I get to be the guy who takes her home afterward.

I pull back and smile. “Proud of you, Becks.”

She squeezes my hand. “Love you, Ken.”

I grin. “Love you too.”

Then I step aside so the next reader can meet her favorite new author and check my pocket for the hundredth time to make sure the velvet box is still tucked safely inside.

The one holding my grandmother’s vintage diamond ring. The one I’m going to propose with when we get home.

She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve got pizza ordered, champagne chilling, and a little black bow tie waiting for Darcy. Assuming the furry bastard lets me put it on him.

I’m still debating my odds of surviving that particular battle when Coach comes up beside me and pats me on the back.

“Nervous, son?”