Page 483 of Face Off

“You really want to marry me.”

“I’m attempting to propose, so an answer would be helpful.”

Her laugh breaks through the crying. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

The answer barely escapes before she kisses me. I close my hand around the ring to keep from losing it beneath the tree and hold her while her mouth moves desperately against mine.

“Yes,” she says again between kisses. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Holy shit, Ryan, I’ll marry you.”

I pull back far enough to find her left hand. Charm watches through her tears as I slide the ring onto her finger, and it fits perfectly.

She holds it between us, staring at the stone while the Christmas lights catch inside it. “It’s so beautiful.”

“It’s dramatic, expensive, and demands attention from across the room.”

Her wet eyes narrow. “Are you describing me?”

“I knew you would recognize yourself.”

“How did you know I’d want yellow gold and nothing over four carats?”

I look at her like she lost her mind. She has delivered enough lectures about engagement rings to qualify for continuing-education credits, but I decide to let her be coy.

“Call it a hunch, princesa.”

Charm laughs and holds the ring toward the Christmas lights, turning her hand until the oval diamond throws fractured light across the walls.

She kisses me again, softer this time. Her fingers disappear into my hair while I return my hand to her ass and hold my fiancée against me beneath the absurd tree that will apparently follow us everywhere for the rest of our lives.

“You proposed while grabbing my ass,” she murmurs against my mouth.

“I knew exactly what I was committing to.”

Her laughter warms my lips, and I kiss her until the ring, the tree, and every place we once failed each other disappear beneath the quiet certainty that she said yes.

We remain on the floor until the cold air in the loft and my empty stomach force us apart. Charm gathers the paperwork while I carry our coffee into the kitchen and start breakfast.

The loft fills with the sound of Christmas music from her speaker and butter hissing across the skillet. Charm leans against the counter beside me, rereading the floor plan as though she has not memorized every line.

“There’s room upstairs for you,” she says.

“You already told me.”

“I’m making sure you understand that it’s yours.”

“I understand.”

“You can write there whenever you want.”

“I know.”

“You can choose the furniture.”

I glance at her. “That sounds like a trap.”

“It isn’t.”

“You hate my apartment.”