Page 115 of Strictly Pretend

He takes my hand softly. “What about the book next to it?”

I look. And then I look again. My heart swells until it’s so full in my chest.

“Brooks,” I whisper. “No way.”

“Remember when I spoke to your granddad the day we got back?”

“I remember.” I’m not going to cry, I’m not.

“I asked him for your hand in marriage. He told me it’s not him I need to woo, it’s you. But the thing is, you’re not easily wooed. But you do have an achilles’ heel.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. You love hard. And you love your granddad. And you know there’s one thing that will make his life complete.”

“This book,” I whisper, pulling it from the shelf. On the front, in gold writing, is my grandmother’s name.

Sally Robbins. Love Poetry, Vol 1

There was never another volume. There never needed to be. She wrote a book. It was published.

And now it’s in my hands.

“Does Granddad know you found it?” I ask him. Because he’s going to be over the moon. Maybe we need to break it to him gently. We don’t need another heart issue.

“Not yet. I needed to show it to you first.”

A wave of emotion washes over me, making my breath ragged.

“Baby…” He kisses my brow.

“Happy tears,” I tell him. “Really, really happy tears.” I turn to look at him. And then I decide I need to turn completely, which is actually easier said than done when you’re balanced on a ladder and a really big, muscled guy is pressed against your back.

But somehow I manage it without breaking any bones. And then I’m facing him, and he’s looking concerned – presumably like I might fall – because he puts his hands on either side of me, pressing his body against mine.

“When we live together I need a library,” I tell him.

“I’ll have one built in every house we own.”

I start to laugh. “Can I call Granddad? I need to tell him about the book.”

“Can I ask you one more thing?” Brooks murmurs.

“If it’s can we have library sex, the answer is definitely yes.”

But he’s already climbing down, dropping onto one knee, pulling out the most exquisite ring I’ve ever seen. A huge emerald surrounded by tiny diamonds set on a platinum clasp.

“It reminded me of your eyes,” he murmurs as I stare at it. And if I thought I was emotional before, right now I’m on the edge of some kind of feelings implosion.

He takes it out of the box. “Emma Robbins. My friend. My lover. My fake fiancée. Howler at the moon and whiskey connoisseur. Will you do me the honor of agreeing to be my real fiancée? Not that you were ever not real. Or not my fiancée.” He grins. “I should have written this down. It sounds terrible.”

“It sounds perfect,” I whisper. “And by the way, the answer’s yes.”

The words barely escape my lips before he’s sliding the ring on my finger and sweeping me off the ladder and into his arms, his mouth demanding against mine as he kisses me until my toes curl in pleasure.

“It’s going to be a small wedding,” he tells me, his mouth moving against mine.

“The smallest.”

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