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“Yes, you can.”

“No, Preston, that’s too much.”

I peel the bow apart and pop the box open.

“Holy shit,” Grace says, moving closer to look at it. “It’s gorgeous.”

I take the ring out and grab her hand. She doesn’t fight me as I slowly slip it on the ring finger of her left hand.

“There. That’s better,” I say.

I look up to find her staring at the oval diamond on her finger.

Why does she have to be so pretty? Like all the time.

My heart beats a little faster when she looks at me, a small smile touching her lips.

But then her phone vibrates again.

She grabs it, completely forgetting about the ring.

I don’t blame her. I didn’t actually propose.

Her ring sparkles under the single light on in the kitchen as she reads whatever is on her screen now.

“Which one pushed you to get out of bed?”

She glances at me.

“You’re not going to keep encouraging me to let this go?”

“I am, but I’m noticing that’s not how it works with you and that overthinking brain of yours. So, let’s try talking it out. What triggered this middle-of-the-night stress session that requires”—I pause and nod to the grape juice on the counter beside her—“some juice to wind down.”

She lets out a weak laugh, turning her phone to show me which article is the reason for us both being wide awake right now.

What happens at six months for the newest happy couple? That’s the groom-to-be’s time to check out.

Jesus, why is this a thing for her? She’s awfully concerned about what choices I’m going to make in six months. Is it because of the image it could create for the lodge and her, or is it because …

“Did Brad cheat on you?”

“What?” Her eyes widen. “What … um … why is that your first question?”

I shrug. “We come back to this a lot. Your fear of what I might do at six months. Do you really think I’d cheat on you?”

“Fake-cheat on me, you mean.”

“Sure, fake-cheat on you.”

“I don’t know, and I know it’s weird that I keep thinking about this and you and sex and all that stuff, but come on, Preston, let’s be real. If this goes on for a year or more, then what? We just become celibate? I mean, that’s not something I want. Is it something you want? And what about when⁠—”

“Sit on the counter, Sunny.”

“What?” It comes out all breathless.

“I said, sit. On. The. Counter.”

“But why?”