Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
“So. What’s your verdict?” he asks.
“On what?”
He gestures loosely around the room. “The proposal. The ring. The happily ever after.”
I let my eyes roll up and left, a calculated show of consideration. “Proposal was a seven out of ten. Ring is a seven-point-five. We’ll have to wait and see how the happily ever after plays out.”
He grins. “You grade tough.”
“You asked.” I shrug and take another sip of my champagne.
“What made you give those low scores?” He sits back and stares at me waiting for an answer.
“Well,” I give him a shrug. “The ring is beautiful but way to big for my tastes. I work in a hospital, so I tend to like smaller with more meaning. You know like an antique with history.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this, but the champagne has loosened my tongue so here we go. “And I’m also not a fan of big, public displays.”
“It wasn’t really that big of a display.” Mick reminds me. “Just a few of their closest friends and her brother.”
“That’s still too many people for me. I want a private proposal and a small intimate wedding.” Why am I telling this stranger about my ideal wedding? I’m going to blame it on the champagne.
Harper’s laughter erupts again, and for a second Mick’s attention snaps back to she and Jaxson. I take the opportunity to breathe. My fingers drum a quick rhythm against the base of my glass before I catch myself and stop.
The conversation circles, the champagne flows, and the world outside the big picture window goes from blue dusk to black in the space of three hours. At some point, Mick stands up to flag down another bottle, and when he comes back he sets it in front of me like a dare. He pours, careful not to spill a drop, and the bubbles climb in the glass like they’re trying to reach escape velocity.
“You’re wasting your time on me. I’m not going to get drunk and hop into bed with you.”
He tilts his head. “I’m not trying to get you into bed.”
I’m not going to lie; a little part of me is disappointed. “Good to know.”
“But I might be trying to get you to agree to a date.” His eyes turn serious, low and honest. For one weird, destabilizing second, I want to lean in and taste his lips. Instead, I knock back the rest of my glass, feeling the champagne hit my system all at once.
When I set the empty glass down, Mick’s hand covers mine. Warm, steady, completely still. For a moment the rest of the room disappears, and I can feel is the weight of his hand, the absolute certainty of it.
I look at him. He looks at me. No one moves.
“I’m not looking to date anyone.” I mutter. My life is way too busy right now to add in a spoiled athlete who needs his ego stroked.
Then I pull my hand back, careful, like disarming a trip wire. “I have to be up early,” I say, which is mostly true. Tomorrow is my day off, but I have a ton of housework and laundry to do.
Mick just nods. “I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he says, and the simplicity of it undoes me a little.
Harper calls across the table. “Mia, you going already? We haven’t even started the real celebration.”
“You’re three glasses ahead,” I say suddenly jealous of the happiness radiating from her. “I’d never catch up.” Pull your shit together. I tell myself.
She blows me a kiss, then gives me the double eyebrow raise again. Mick stands, waiting for me to gather my things. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t hover. He just waits, like he’s got all the time in the world.
The evening winds down around us. I take a small step, and for a second, I’m unsteady—not from the champagne, but from the realization that I want him to keep holding my hand. I want a lot of things I’ll never say out loud.
But I take my purse, square my shoulders, and let him lead me out into the soft, pine-scented night.
As we walk to the car, neither of us says a word. It’s the kind of silence you could cut and serve for dessert.
I keep my hands wrapped tight around my purse strap, so I don’t do something incredibly stupid, like reach for him first.
Mick’s car is black, spotless, all sharp lines and brushed steel. He opens the passenger door for me, waits until I’m inside and buckled, then circles around to the driver’s seat and slides in.
He starts the engine, and for a second the only sound is the low click of the dashboard lighting up. There’s a bare whisper of jazz playing under the hum of the heater. He glances at me, confirms I’m good, then puts the car in drive and pulls out of the resort.