Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Grant lets out an understanding rumble.
“Only in the shop?” His head turns and he looks down at me with those hazel-honey eyes that warm me from head to toe.
“No,” I answer quietly, and stretch up to brush my lips to his, his beard prickling my cheeks. “Do I look like I just mean the shop?”
I feel him smile more than I see it, his lips moving against mine, a lazy sweet thing. A reminder that now we have all the time in the world for every kiss, every touch, every lingering glance, every secret.
Because I’m not leaving this time.
I’m not going anywhere again.
His kiss leaves my chilled lips warmed—way more than my lips, honestly.
But as he leans back, he curls his hand over mine, laying it against his arm and reminding me just how frozen my fingers are, too.
“You forgot your gloves,” he says.
I beam back a cheeky smile.
“I could think of a few ways you could warm my hands up.”
“I could,” he says—and is there something strange in his voice as he pulls back from me? Then he lets me go, his arm slipping from my grasp. “Or you could try putting them in your pockets.”
Huh?
I blink, puzzled, a sting of hurt going through me.
It’s not like Grant to reject me like this, pulling away so I can’t even touch him, but there’s something odd in his eyes.
Something intense, deep and searching and not cold at all, making a lie of his actions.
I don’t understand.
But I need a second to compose myself so I don’t react with instant hurt. Shrugging, I turn away from him to look out at the water, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my lovely new coat.
Then I go completely stiff.
Motionless except for the frantic beat of my heart.
The right pocket.
My fingers brush something—a boxy shape, velvety, a seam under my fingertips, and—I’m not stupid, I instantly know what it is—but I don’t dare believe it.
Not until I yank the box out with a gasp, holding it up in my palm.
Soft blue velvet, dark as the night sky.
And when I open it, my blood rushing and crying out with joy, I see the unthinkable.
A ring!
It glitters like the first delicate snow drifting out of the sky, diamond-clear, a gorgeously cut stone set in the center and framed by two smaller clear-polished peridots the same shade as my eyes, all on a delicately wrought band of twined silver ropes.
Oh, God.
Oh my God, I’m going to cry.
I’m going to scream.
I’m going to barf.
I’m going to—I’m definitely laughing, a little manically, clutching at the box with one hand and pressing the other over my mouth, staring down at the ring and then up at Grant as I try not to hyperventilate.
His smug smile calms me, the gentle way his eyes glitter with teasing warmth.
“Grant?” I whisper in the faintest voice.
“Never met a woman who can find more ways to be so contrary,” he says. “Gets herself a brand-new coat and she doesn’t even do the obvious thing and stuff her hands in her pockets on a cold night.” His grin widens as he snorts. He steps closer, his warmth reaching out to me in a cloud. “But I guess that gave me a chance to find a prettier place to propose than the front porch.”
Propose?
Even if I knew it was coming, my brain can’t handle it.
I let out a choked sound that’s half giggle, half sob as he plucks the box from my hand and sinks down on one knee in front of me. His taut thighs strain against his jeans as the grass crunches under him.
It used to be an art form, knowing how to read Grant Faircross... but right now, the look in his eyes needs no translation.
Not when his heart shines so clear in those hazel depths, in that devil’s smile on full, firm lips.
Not when, looking up at me, Grant offers me the ring and so much more as he clears his throat.
“Ophelia Sanderson, I’ve been chasing you even when you weren’t here to chase. I always loved you. Always damn well knew I’d be here one day, if only you’d let me. And now that I have you, I don’t ever want to see the back of you again. Stay this time, Ophelia. Stay and be my wife.”
Trembling, I reach for the box again, delicately touching the sharp-cut edges of the stones, my eyes blurring.
“That’s not even a question,” I can’t help teasing.
He snorts.
“Give me a yes or no, you brat,” he says.
I’m already laughing with sheer joy.
“Yes,” I cry, flinging myself against him. “Now put your ring on me and kiss me, you big lunk.”
There’s nothing but laughter between us then, and cold, fumbling fingers as he works the ring out of the box and slips it on my finger.
My God, it feels like the rightness I’ve been searching for all my life.