Page 23 of Always Knew It Was You

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers with an almost comical horror in her tone. “I didn’t mean to… I can’t believe I did that.”

“Nah, entirely my fault,” I say, somehow managing to keep my face straight. I shouldn’t have broken the news to her like that, but the idea just hit me out of nowhere. And I can’t lie, I also wanted to surprise her a little, to see what she was like when she got caught off guard.

And, well, I guess I got my wish.

“I really am sorry,” she says again in a quieter voice as I dab the liquid from my suit. It won’t come out. I already know it’s a hopeless case, but I at least want to be able to walk out of here without looking like a two-year-old who hasn’t learned how to properly drink from a sippy cup.

“I can get it cleaned for you after.”

“That would be pointless. This is cashmere.” I wave my hand. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. Although, if you’re that sorry, then maybe consider saying yes to my little proposition.”

“What proposition?”

“To marry me, of course.”

Her eyes widen again, and I know if she had more wine in her mouth, it would be spraying through the air again. “Wait, you were serious about that?”

“You think I would risk such a spit take if I wasn’t serious?”

Her face flushes and she finally glances around as though realizing we’re in public. The restaurant is quiet enough that her antics likely got some attention, and even though almost no one is outwardly staring anymore, quite a few tables are still stealing glances and chuckling. “God, that was embarrassing.”

“Nah. It was glorious,” I tell her, finally allowing myself to grin. “Ten out of ten accuracy and maximum comic relief with minimum damage. You just made quite a few people’s nights. It was the icebreaker they needed to crack the tension. You may have saved a few first dates too, and maybe a few marriages by giving them something else to talk about other than who’s sleeping with whose yoga instructor.”

“Oh God.” She covers her face with one hand. “Of course. The first time I come to a high-class restaurant and I have to make a complete country bumpkin of myself.”

I take her other hand from the table, turning it over to trace the lines in the center. She has such soft hands. And while I’m enjoying her embarrassment, I also feel the urge to soothe her worries, and make her comfortable again. “If it makes you feel better, one time I got wasted at a business convention and ended up toppling over a year-long project that was an elaborate twelve-foot model of the Eiffel Tower.”

She peeks at me through her fingers. “Really?”

“Yup.” The specifics are that it happened a week after my brother’s funeral. My father invited me to the business convention because all the important business people were supposed to be there. He wanted me to impress them so that the stakeholders would be okay with me taking my brother’s place. It was the first in his long line of acts to force me into the role, while my brother was barely decayed in the ground. I know Dad was grieving him in his own way, but the man could compartmentalize like a pro—grieve but still do his duty, and insist on me doing mine.

But I hated it, hated the role he was forcing me to play. I felt like a misshapen peg that everyone was trying to bang into a clean round whole.

And so, as an act of rebellion, I got drunk before I showed up to the convention so that the shareholders would see how unsuitable I was for the role. Of course, I didn’t expect to be that out of control either. I got way too loose, too fast, and blacked out for most of it. I only know what I did thanks to CCTV footage and my dad’s later rants.

I didn’t drink for weeks after that, and even now, I barely drink at all because of it.

But looking back, it was kind of a funny story.

Carly doesn’t need all the backstory, so I just tell her the highlights, about me stumbling around, nearly throwing up on a prime minister’s wife, accidentally insulting a liaison to France, and then calling our primary stakeholder a big poopy head.

Carly smiles and eventually laughs as the story unfolds, easing her tension. She has such a pretty laugh. Her nose crinkles a little, her eyes turn into this warm chocolatey color, and her lips downturn, like she’s trying her hardest not to give in.

And the sound itself? Throaty, like happiness punching out of her.

“So anyway,” I conclude. “The long and short of the story is, Hennesy is the devil’s juice and I’m no longer allowed within fifty feet of a Ritz-Carlton. Might also be banned from a few embassies too. You probably need to know that if we’re going to be married.”

“Why?”

“Why am I banned? Well, I just told you the story of–”

“No.” She laughs and holds up her hand to stop my tirade. “I mean why do you want me to marry you?”

“Oh, that. I was wondering when you would get around to asking.” Her embarrassment has likely died enough that she’s finally ready to confront the question. “It’s another pretty long story involving a man called Marcus Landing.”

“Your dad?”

“Yes,” I say. “How did you know?”

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