Page 54 of The Americana Playbook

My eyes drop to the ring. The sapphire glows in the light that shines off its diamond counterpart.

“I was wearing your jersey the night I found you in the club,” I remind him, looking back up. “Probably a few other of the girls too.”

“Funny enough, you were the only one I noticed it on.”

I know this shouldn’t make me smile, but it does, even though I fight against it. Because I’m not sure what Fitz is trying to prove in this moment. I don’t need the flattery, especially not in a pocket of privacy. We might have eyes on us, but we’re not being eavesdropped on.

But I decide it’s nice to be flattered. It’s nice to be shown off and not hidden away, even under the false pretense of a relationship that doesn’t exist. I can enjoy this night of pretend, I decide. I canlivein it as if it’s real.

“By the way,” he murmurs. “I didn’t bid on the whale watching.”

“I already forgot about that,” I say. “What a bummer.”

“I tend to get seasick.”

“Since when?” I recall a dozen times being on a boat out past the bay with Fitz. Sure, the sea out there was pretty mild in terms of waves. But seasickness is seasickness. “You never said no when I asked you to come out on the boat with me.”

He sighs. “I never really said no to you, did I?”

A shiver creeps up my spine.

“If you needed something, I’d never say no. Not for anything.”

“Do you still love to ride?”

I jump out of the past and right back into the present, where I find Fitz smiling coyly.

“Excuse me?”

He breaks into soft laughter that I swear is far too delicate to escape from his broad chest.

Fitz tips his head toward the back of the room where the silent auction table is. “Riding lessons for you. I’ll get the certificate when we leave.”

I’m touched, but my confusion makes it to the surface first. “It’s anauction. You could be outbid.” I remind him.

Fitz says nothing, just reaches for his short glass and tips the remaining liquor into his mouth. “Added an extra zero for good measure. Consider it an engagement gift.”

My eyes widen. “I get that I’ve never properly celebrated anyone’s engagement before, but don’t other people give the bride and groom gifts?”

“I prefer to be a one-man show when it comes to celebrating my bride.” Fitz doesn’t give me a chance to respond beyond my jaw dropping. Without breaking his hold on my hand, he stands. “Let’s have a first,” he says.

I let him gently tug me to my feet. “A first what?”

Fitz leads me to the ballroom floor just as the music slows. “A first dance.”

Of all the things we’ve done together, I find it hard to believe dancing isn’t one of them. “We’ve never danced?”

“Unless you include the Macarena in fourth grade,” Fitz says, pulling me against him. “No.”

I raise an eyebrow. We probably went to close to ten school dances between middle and high school. “Are you sure?”

Fitz leans forward. “Do you think I could forget?”

And for the next few minutes, I don’t search for seconds of truth in the running film of this grand spectacle we’re producing. Instead, I split myself, becoming both the actor and the audience, so that I’m able to enjoy both feeling and seeing what it’s like to be held by someone who believes I’m worth holding.

I can see how amazing it looks—how amazingwelook—not just in this moment but over the course of a lifetime and all the stages of hand-holding we’ve done together.

I see us running in the lush, manicured grass of Captain’s Cottage as we battled imaginary enemies.

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