Big Rock (Big Rock #1) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,72

fan of fun showers, I say yes. When she kneels on the tiles, she treats me to the best shower I’ve ever had in my life, and does something so intense with her tongue that I’ve got to remember to ask her if she can tie a knot in a cherry with it, too.

Not that it matters. I have no use for knotted cherries. But I have lots and lots of uses for her tongue. Mine, too, as I indulge in another taste of her after midnight when we get into bed.

Then, we fool ourselves into thinking we’ll sleep, but instead I slide inside her as we spoon in the dark. Fido provides the harmony, purring loudly when she comes, and together they sound like a mini earthquake.

“Charlotte, I have a confession to make,” I tell her as I run my fingers through her hair while she comes down from her high.

“Spit it out.”

“My cat’s a pervert.”

She laughs. “Sounds like the three of us will get along fine then.”

I think so, too.

EPILOGUE

One month later

We are the only ones at The Lucky Spot. The last drink was served an hour ago, and now we’re done closing up.

I grab my keys from the office, and she shoulders her purse. “Your place or mine?” she asks playfully. Then she answers it with, “I mean, ours.”

Her lease runs out at the end of this month, so she moved in with me a week ago. She hogs the sheets, and I sleep naked, so that might be a problem in the winter, but aside from that, life with her is pretty much perfect. Add in the fact that Abe’s article never ran, since there was no sale of Katharine’s, only a fake engagement that turned into a genuine love story. I’m a happy camper and so is my dad, who’s somewhere in the Mediterranean now while Nina runs the store.

The only thing that would make this moment more perfect is a bottle of wine.

“Before we leave, let’s have a quick glass,” I say, heading behind the bar and grabbing a bottle I picked out for the night.

She shoots me a curious look from her side of the bar. “Do you want to just have that at home?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Here.”

I pour a glass for myself, then one for her. I slide it across the bar. I hold mine up to toast. “To re-creations.”

She furrows her brow. “What? You’re not making any sense.”

“Work with me. It’ll make sense soon.” I take a drink, then set down my glass. “Isn’t it funny how everyone thinks we’re a couple?”

“But we are a couple,” she says, shaking her head and tapping the glass. “Were you drinking a lot before you cracked this one open, Holiday?”

I’m undeterred. “We need a story,” I say, reminding her of what she told me in her kitchen the day we first decided to fake it. “Remember?” I ask, prompting her. “One Thursday night at The Lucky Spot, over a glass of wine after closing time…”

Recognition dawns, and her brown eyes twinkle. “Yes. If memory serves, you said what you just said.”

I repeat myself, holding her gorgeous gaze captive. “Isn’t it funny how everyone thinks we’re a couple?”

She remembers her line—her made-up, make-believe line about how we came together. “Maybe we should be one.”

I say nothing. She doesn’t speak either. We both recall the script, and how it called for an awkward pause.

When the pause is weighted with enough awkward, I speak, the corner of my lips curving up. “But this time, there’s more after the awkward pause,” I say, then dip my hand into my pocket.

“What happens next?” she asks breathily, her palms pressed on the counter, anticipation evident in how her shoulders curve toward me.

“A magic trick.”

“Show me.”

I leave my post and walk around the bar. When I reach her, I wave one hand behind her left ear, then I take my other hand out of my pocket, and brush it behind her right ear. “Look what I found behind your ear,” I say, then open my palm in front of her.

“Oh God,” she says, her voice catching.

I bend down to one knee and take her hand. “I have a proposition for you. When we first played make-believe fiancée, you used two words that we both swore we’d never hear again. But even then they sounded perfect coming from you. Mrs. Holiday. And that’s because you’re the only one I ever want to be Mrs. Holiday, and I hope you think it sounds as sexy and beautiful as I do. Will you marry me?”

“I love being propositioned by you, so the answer is…yes,” she says, as a tear slips down her cheek.

Never has one word been more perfect.

I hold up the ring, letting the stone catch the light from above. “This is the ring you picked out—the one you wanted, the one that’s perfect for you. It’s also the ring I got for you the first time, and it’s the one I want you to wear for always,” I say, as she holds out her hand.

“Put it on me,” she says, in between happy sobs. “It’s the only one I want. You’re the only one I want.”

I slide it on her ring finger for the second time, and I know that it will be the forever time.

ANOTHER EPILOGUE

Six months later

My wife is fucking awesome.

But don’t just take my word for it. Consider all her accomplishments.

She’s bright, she’s beautiful, she’s funny, and she married me.

End of story.

Oh, wait. There’s one more thing I have to say. So, yeah. We broke pretty much all the rules. We had sleepovers, and we lied, and it was weird, and we fell in love, and it didn’t last a week. It’s lasting a lifetime.

There are two rules we kept though. Remember how we agreed to stay friends? We remain friends. Best of friends.

Now, you’re probably wondering about that other rule. Charlotte held fast on that one, but I’m not missing a thing, especially considering how well she can tie cherry stems with her tongue. I’m the luckiest bastard on the face of the earth, because I’m madly in love with the woman I come home to every night. My wife. My best friend.

And I make her happy every night.

If you know what I mean.

And I think you do.

Happy wife = happy life.

THE END