Page 70 of Not a Strong Enough Word

When he pulls away, he laces his fingers through mine and leads me back into his condo where we spend the rest of the night showing each other how we feel, over and over again.

Chapter 31

Ryan

I lie awake long after Scarlett has fallen asleep. Her dark hair is splayed out on the pillow, and her face is peaceful. Maybe more peaceful than I’ve ever seen it.

Her hand is resting on my chest, and I bring it to my lips to kiss her fingers before laying it gently next to her so I can get up. The rhythmic rising and falling of her back doesn’t change, which tells me she’s deeply asleep. As quietly as I can, I tiptoe over to my dresser and slide the top drawer open. Using my phone as a light, I rummage under the clothes until I find the small box I’m looking for. I take it with me out into the living room, closing the bedroom door behind me so I can turn on a light and sit on the couch.

The box is a soft, navy velvet that has been worn down over the years. I haven’t taken it out to look at it in a while—not since I got my tattoo, actually—but this box has been well loved, first by my parents, then by me. I used to hold it all the time even though I’d never open it. I haven’t opened it in five years.

My hands almost dwarf it, and my fingers shake slightly as I take a deep breath and crack it open. The hinge squeaks and pops open to reveal a ring. The band is gold and flares where it meets a single, small diamond solitaire. It was my mother’s ring. My dad had bought it for her on a limited budget. To hear her tell it, he always said he’d get her a new one—a better one—but she wouldn’t have it. “This is my ring,” she’d say, and that was that.

I use my thumb to spin his matching gold band around on my middle finger. His hands were always so much bigger than mine. Where he was bulky and solid, I was always thin and spindly. When he gave it to me before he died, it slid right off my finger. I wore it on a chain on my neck until I was an adult. Even now, I have to wear it on my middle finger.

My mom gave me her ring years after he died. She said she wanted me to have it just in case I ever met a woman I loved as much as my dad loved her.

That day in the park, as we ate our tacos and read our books in the Chicago summer sun, I knew I’d give this ring to Scarlett someday. It was too soon then, but I knew all the same.

I was carrying it with me the day Scarlett turned down JMP’s offer. I had thought we’d celebrate her signing, and I’d give it to her over dinner. Maybe I’d even have ordered tacos. I hadn’t really thought about it, but I knew I wanted her to have it that day. I wanted her to be my wife.

Carefully, I remove the ring from the box and turn it this way and that. It glints in the yellow light from the single lamp next to the couch. The band is worn on the underside because my mom wore it every single day for almost twenty-five years—well after he died. She didn’t take it off until she started dating again. The diamond is a little cloudy, but none of that ever seemed to matter. This was the ring, and Scarlett was the woman. She still is. She always will be.

But now isn’t the time, either. We’re just starting to find each other again, learning all the new ways we fit together. Someday, though. Soon. Because if we can make it through this, I’m confident we can make it through anything.

I put the ring back in the box and snap it shut. For some reason, I had needed to see it, to reassure myself it was still there. Of course it was. Right where I left it.

Turning off the lamp, I find my way through the dark to my bedroom. I place the box in the drawer and carefully climb back into bed. Scarlett shifts this time, then sighs in her sleep. Her hand finds me again, cold against my skin. I hold it in mine and place it back over my chest, where it belongs.

When I leave for work the next morning, Scarlett is still half-asleep. It’s almost unheard of for her to sleep longer than me, but I’m glad. She needs it. So I kiss her temple, whisper to her that she can stay as long as she likes, and head out the door.

The one drawback of working at Anastasios Press is the commute—I drive about an hour each way now that the offices are in the suburbs, though if I took public transportation, it would have taken me that same hour to get to JMP on a good day. Even all of the traffic in the world has been worth the move, though. It’s such a better environment. And it brought Scarlett back to me.

If that’s not fate, I don’t know what is.

And that’s how I find myself musing about fate and soulmates and marriage as I distractedly make my way through the hallways to my office, my mind occupied by my own contentment.

I’ve barely set down my bag and powered on my laptop when a small knock comes from the doorframe of my open door. My intern, Margie, pokes her head in.

“Oh good, you’re here,” she says breathlessly. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she sounded nervous.

“Come on in, Margie.” I motion for her to sit. “What’s up?”

She takes a step into the room, but lingers by the doorway, wringing her hands in front of her. “Mr. Martis was looking for you.”

“Really?” I ask. Then I snap my fingers when it dawns on me. “It must be because of that cover. There was a mistake. I’ll find him in a little while to explain—”

“I don’t think it was about the cover,” Margie interrupts, her eyes wide with worry. “He said you should meet him in the conference room right away when you got in. Miss McBryde is there with him, too, and Mr. Endersen and the publicity team. He did not seem happy.”

Trina, Casey, and Publicity? That’s strange, but this couldn’t be anything too terrible about Scarlett. She is currently either still snuggled underneath the covers in my bed or drinking my coffee and getting ready for her day.

“I’ll head over there right now. Thank you, Margie.”

She nods once and leaves quickly, as if staying anywhere near me is dangerous.

I walk quickly down the hall to the conference room where everyone Margie named is, indeed, sitting around the large table. When I walk in, they all look at me in unison and the room goes silent. A quick glance at Casey has me officially worried, because he looks about as panicked as he can get. Trina’s eyes are the only pair not on me; they’re downcast as she stares at something on the table in front of her.

“Mr. Whitlock,” Anastasios booms. “Thank you for coming. Have a seat.”