Steal My Magnolia (Love at First Sight #3) - Karla Sorensen Page 0,98
laugh.
“Normally, I listen to what she tells me, especially when she says it with a certain look in her eyes.” My daddy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But I wanted to see how you’d react when you weren’t ready.”
Grady looked my way, giving me a tiny wink. “Well, sir, I’ve been ready to meet you and your wife for a while.”
“Why’s that?”
He lifted his chin. “Because I’m completely in love with your daughter, and if I’m very lucky, with your wife’s and your blessing, I’ll be asking her to marry me in the next few months.”
With a shaking hand, I covered my mouth.
My father’s eyes widened and color bloomed on his cheeks. J.T. McIntyre was not often taken completely by surprise, but if I hadn’t been so shocked by what Grady said, I might have snapped a picture.
“That so?” he asked gruffly. “Hardly seems you’ve been dating her long enough to know that.”
Grady nodded. “Might seem that way. But I have a feeling you won’t judge me for it.” His eyes flicked back in my direction again, and he smiled. “Sometimes, you just know.”
Daddy was quiet. “I suppose you’re right.” He slapped Grady on the shoulder. “I’ll meet you down at the house. Don’t park on the grass like an ingrate. I worked my ass off on that lawn.”
Grady grinned. “Yes, sir.”
My hand fell away from my mouth when I caught a glimpse of my daddy’s smile as he walked away from the car.
Grady slid back into his seat, wearing a satisfied smile on his face. “That went well.”
I stared. “You told him you’re going to propose to me in the next few months.”
He looked over at me. “I did.”
“Are you crazy?” I laughed.
He leaned in for a soft kiss, which I gave freely. “Maybe I am, my Magnolia.”
I curled my fingers through his as he drove us down the driveway. Maybe I was crazy too, because even if he asked me tonight, I’d say yes.
Sometimes, you just knew.
Second Epilogue
Hunter
The pen I used to sign my divorce papers was heavy in my hand, one of the nicest ones I owned. My dad gave it to me the night before I graduated high school, and I remember thinking that a pen was one of the worst gifts I’d ever received.
But I kept it. Used it all the time at work, stored it in the fancy box he’d presented it to me in. It wasn’t heavy because I was using it to end my marriage. It was heavy because it was expertly made. The black ink flowed effortlessly across the white paper, and before I could even blink, it was done.
And my father, who gave me the black and gold pen in the black and gold box, had no idea that I’d even filed for divorce from my wife. Neither did my mother. I’d told no one back at home that it had come to this.
Even though it was the right decision—one that Samantha and I made together—and even though they’d never really gotten along with my wife, they’d view my divorce as a sign that I should come home to Green Valley.
I set the pen down and leaned back in my desk chair.
Going back to Green Valley was the last thing I wanted. Not because of the town itself. Or the people who lived there.
It was because of her. Because of Iris.
The bottom-right desk drawer, the one that held a small box that I hadn’t touched since the day I got married, beckoned me to open it. Instead of indulging that impulse, my gaze moved back to the paper I just signed.
Was it that simple? Scrawl my name in expensive ink, legally end the marriage that had been over emotionally for almost three years, and then open the locked box. Look at her face and feel my heart turn painfully in my chest, simply because now … with the writing of my name … I was allowed to.
It wasn’t that simple.
Because nothing in life was. Opening a box and looking at a picture would never be enough when it came to her. And soon, too soon, I’d have to face her anyway.
I pushed aside my divorce papers and carefully picked up the letter I’d received earlier that day.
No, it definitely wasn’t simple at all, because with the contents of that letter, I found out I’d have to face Iris for the first time in ten years.
“Ready or not,” I murmured into the quiet apartment, “here we go.”