Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“You’re welcome.” Taking the handle of her suitcase in one hand, I hold her hand with the other, and we start walking. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too,” she says with a little hop-skip in her walk.
Paul opens the brass and glass door for us when we return, and I say, “This is Paul. Paul, this is my Shor—Lauralee Knot.”
Tipping his head, he replies, “Nice to meet you, Ms. Knot. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance during your visit.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that, and it’s so nice to meet you, too.” She reaches out to shake his hand. It’s not common practice, it seems, according to his reaction, but he happily accepts the offer. “Have a good day.” When we cross through the lobby, she looks around and then at me, her hand tightening on mine, and smiles. “He was nice.”
“He’s a good guy.” We step onto the elevator, and I punch the button for the twelfth floor. “It’s weird that you’re here. In a good way, but different.”
She stands beside me when the doors close, bumping her hip against mine. I wrap my arm around her, bringing her in again, and kiss her. When our mouths part, she licks her lips. “I know what you mean. This feels . . . real, official in a way.”
The doors open. I let her walk out and follow her with the suitcase. After unlocking the apartment, I hold the door and trail in after her. “I want to talk to you about that.”
Glancing back over her shoulder, she asks, “About what?” She redirects her eyes forward and walks straight to the windows to look down.
“Us.”
She turns around as if I’ve hit the jackpot. “Same. I’m glad you brought it up.” Looking at the kitchen, she works her way back to set the flowers down. “Your apartment is really nice. It’s sophisticated, like you.”
“That’s not something I can say I’ve been called before.”
“Well, you’ve grown in ways that some of us never had the chance. Experiences and new cities have changed you. You fit in this surrounding. Vase?”
I want to take offense at what she’s saying. Saying I don’t fit in Peachtree Pass feels a lot like rejection. I reach for a vase stored in a cabinet above the fridge. It’s not something I’ve ever used, but I was told to always have one on hand just in case.
Taking it to the sink, I start filling it with water. “How should I take that?”
“It’s in a good way. It’s different, like you said earlier, but it’s nice to see this part of your life and you in it.” She comes to me and leans against my chest, wrapping her arms around me. “You’re sexy in both settings.”
“Now you’re just charming me, Ms. Knot.”
“Is that all it takes? A compliment.”
I kiss her cheek, then return to staring into those pretty eyes of my brown-eyed girl. “It’s a great start.”
“Good,” she says, taking a step back and grabbing a knife from the block. “Now that I have you buttered up, I need to talk to you about something important.” After cutting the twine wrapped around the flowers, she starts trimming the stems one by one.
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Maybe you should sit down or have a beer.”
“I need to be drinking to hear what you need to say? Should I be worried?”
“No. Not at all.” Her words are beginning to rush from her mouth, “And remember, you can always say no. There’s no pressure from me because I know this is not only out of left field but also a huge life decision.”
I’m staring at her, more concerned than before, feeling blindsided. At least if it came from left field, I would see it coming before it hit. Leaning against the counter, I watch as she trims like her life depends on it. I reach over and cover her hand. “Look at me, Shortcake.” When she does, I ask, “Just say it.”
“Will you marry me?”
. . .
. . .
. . .
“Baylor?” My eyes begin following her hand as it waves in front of my face. Did I pass out? I’m still standing, so maybe not. When I look at her, her brows are squeezed together in the middle, eyes weighed down at the outside corners in concern, and her lips are parted as she speaks. “You still with me?”
“I’m,” I start, shaking the blankness off as every word she said comes rushing back. “I’m fine. What do you mean marry?”
“I was using the traditional definition. Latin root, maritare, meaning to wed.”
“Not literally.” I rest my palms on the cool stone of the counter, taking a long breath. “I’m confused why you’re asking me to marry you. We’ve been dating for, what? Just over a month.”
“Six weeks to be exact, if we’re counting the night you broke into my apartment.” The comment is so off the cuff, I’m convinced she believes it.