Page 107 of Plot Twist

It all made for a very interesting newspaper article and Riley had been delighted to talk about it all, until he was asked whether there were any marriage plans on the horizon. He’d tried to laugh the interviewer’s question off and said something about certainly feeling the pressure. Of course, the editor had used it as the headline for the piece, Riley O’Connell: Under Pressure. Katrine insisted that all publicity was good publicity, but Riley was mortified. And it wasn’t that easy to embarrass a romance-writing man.

So, I’d decided to take it out of his hands. I’d even had a ring made. And not just any old ring. It was an exact replica of the wedding ring belonging to Riley’s dad, the one that had been stolen from Bellinder Cottage all those years ago.

Yes, I felt a little smug about that.

I’d found a picture of the ring in one of the family photo albums in the eaves of Bellinder Cottage and took it to the jeweller to see what they could do.

The shop assistant presented me with the box and smiled, with a hint of pity, as though I was a tiny bit mad. They had made a big deal about the man-gagement ring when I’d asked them. I wondered what century everyone was living in, when a jewellery store thought proposing to a man was such an obscure concept.

But the ring was just perfect, exactly how I’d envisaged and precisely like the picture.

I ignored the shop assistant’s pity smile, thanked her and placed the box firmly in my handbag, setting out to dodge the rain again on my way home.

I knew Riley was going to love it.

Now, I just had to organise the rest.

Bellinder Cottage was in darkness when I got back after my secret trip. My hair hung around my face like a wet dog’s, and I rather suspected I smelled like one too. My umbrella was completely mangled after trying to compete with the force of the wind, while my shoes held puddles of water.

It had been one of those days.

All I wanted was a bath, a takeaway and an early night.

I peeled my shoes off at the front door, as puddles appeared at my feet. Ivy was staying with Bridget, Ellie and the twins tonight. It was Thursday, after all. But Riley was meant to be home. He’d had a meeting earlier with his publishers to discuss the approach to his third novel, but that had been hours ago. I hadn’t heard from him since. I unlocked the door and there he stood, in the dark hallway, dressed in what looked like a suit.

‘What the fuck are you doing standing in the dark?’ I frowned, hanging my coat up. ‘And why are you all dressed up? I thought we were ordering pizza tonight? I need a warm bath, that weather is crazy out there.’

Riley said nothing but smiled and took my soggy hand, gesturing for me to follow him. We walked along the hallway towards the low, hazy glow of the living room. I gasped as I opened the door. The whole room was filled with flickering candles. He’d lined a series of black-and-white polaroid pictures of us up around the room, too, on little tiny pegs. There was one of us atQueen Bee’s launch. It was my favourite picture of, well, myself. I’d been grinning up at Riley before whispering ‘I really did it’ when Bridget snapped the shot. There was another of the two of us outside Bellinder Cottage, with Ivy giving the peace sign in the middle. Another black-and-white picture hung near the fireplace of us at The Writers’ Retreat, where Riley grinned at the camera while I pulled a funny face. The sight of all the pictures reminded me of Rae’s memorial. I’d told Riley it had been my favourite part. Of course, he’d remembered.

He looked up at me, his green eyes sparkling.

‘No. . .’ I stammered, realising what was about to happen. ‘You can’t.’

‘Becca, I thought of all the magical places I could do this and all the grand gestures I could pull out of the bag, but nothing felt quite right. Except here at Bellinder Cottage. Home,’ he said, clasping my hand. ‘I fell in love with you before I even met you and—’

‘Stop,’ I insisted, rolling up my soggy sleeves and scraping my wet hair back from my face.

‘Why?’ He looked at me, confused. ‘I’ve written something, too. . .’

‘So have I,’ I retorted. ‘But it’s not finished.’

‘Ah, the old writer’s dysfunction.’ He winked. ‘Happens to the best of us.’

‘Noo, Riley.’ I pouted. ‘This isn’t how it’s meant to happen.’

‘Did you make another timetable for it? Sorry, I must have missed the memo.’ He grinned.

I couldn’t help but smile, before sighing.

I wasn’t letting him do this on his terms. I had the ring in my bag.

I could still do this.

‘OK, well, fuck it then.’ I shrugged. ‘I’ll just. . .’

I knelt down in front of him as Riley stood back, his mouth hanging open. His lips broke into his wide, easy grin.

Breathe, Becca. I cleared my throat as I gazed up into his eyes.