Page 22 of It Must Be Fate

“Have fun tonight, baby. I’d wish you good luck, but I know you’re going to kick their asses.”

“I’d be disappointed if you thought otherwise,” I answer, kissing her even more forcefully.

She laughs. “Try not to make them lose too much money. We’re hosting that viewing party for Rhys’ game tomorrow and Phoenix is unbearable to be around when he’s in a bad mood.”

“No promises, sweetheart,” I say with a grin.

Bell and I just moved back to London a couple of weeks ago and it’s been nonstop parties, events, barbecues, and unnamed get-togethers with our friends since. I never had any doubts that we were making the right decision leaving Chicago, but the way we’ve been welcomed to London feels like coming home. We slotted back into the group like we never left.

One thing we’re going to have to do though, is establish some boundaries. Because her friends seem to always be around and it’s cutting into the time I have with Bellamy.

I won’t lie and say that I haven’t thought about taking Tristan’s brother-in-law’s approach. I haven’t met the man, but I heard that he shot one of his sister’s best friends.

Every time I think Bell and I are alone, one of her friends bursts through the door or calls or makes their presence known somehow, so it’s no wonder that I dream about shooting them. Non-fatally of course, I’d never do that to my friends. And now that I have proof that someone can do it and their marriage can get past it, the idea gets more attractive by the day.

But I see how happy Bellamy is, how settled she is since moving here and that kills the thought every time. Her happiness is the only thing that matters to me, no matter.

Tonight, Phoenix organized a poker night for the boys, our first since I’ve been back. The girls decided to do a movie night at ours so they wouldn’t be in the way.

On the one hand, poker night is for the boys.

On the other, not seeing Bell in her cute little pjs and her having fun without me was a non-starter. Within five minutes of being told the news, I’d bought cameras and had them set up around the house so I could check in on her from afar.

So what if I’m obsessed? Sue me.

My now fiancée is starting law school in a few months, she can defend me.

I’m looking forward to her getting me off in more ways than one, Lord knows I’ll more than likely need criminal representation again at some point.

I glance down at the massive ring sparkling on her fourth finger and feel the familiar warmth of comfort that spreads behind my ribcage every time I see it.

She’d told me I could propose only once she graduated college and I’d counted down the days until I could.

Literally.

Short of carving each passing day in the wall of our house like a prisoner counting down the days until his release, I’d done everything else. My first thought when I woke up was that I was one day closer to making her mine. I had an app that sent me nightly reminders so I had something to look forward to the next morning. I even had my assistant remind me every time I flew into a rage because there was no surer way to immediately calm me down than to tell me I only had a certain number of days until I could get down on bended knee.

And I’d made sure that when I finally did, I had the biggest ring possible so no one ever doubted who she belonged to. I’d actually tried to make it even bigger, but the jeweler had respectfully told me that if I did, Bellamy might have a hard time lifting her arm.

I relented, although only because I knew she wouldn’t want that. If it were up to me, I’d have hired an assistant whose full-time job it was to lift her arm for her if that’s what it took.

She said an enthusiastic, heartfelt ‘yes’ when I proposed and now we’re getting married in a few months.

It’s a whole new set of days I’m counting down to.

There’s a knock at my window and I turn to find Six waving at me.

I kiss Bell one more time, pressing my lips fiercely against hers, then reach for the handle.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

Her hand comes down on my forearm. “Wait,” she says, eyeing me distrustfully. “You’re being suspiciously chill.”

“What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

“You typically throw a tantrum every time we’re separated.”

“I do not throw a tant—”

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