Page 6 of Closer

Cooper picks up the white diamond again and I screw up my nose. “Seriously? Does Ali look like the kind of girl who wants a white, sparkly diamond?”

“No.” He sighs and tugs his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t know what she wants.”

“Yes, you do.” I scoff. “We wouldn’t be wasting hours in a fucking overpriced jewellery store if you didn’t. No offense,” I say to the sales girl. She smiles as if she too wants to punch me. Hell, I might even welcome it to distract me from the current ache in my chest, as long as we’re both naked.

“You’re right.” Coop exhales. “What if it’s too soon?”

“Of course it’s too fucking soon. You’ve known her a damn year, and part of that you were in a relationship with someone else, or she was.”

He frowns and glances down at my phone, which is still pinging like crazy with notifications. “Dude, what the fuck? You posted to Instagram that we were in Tiffany’s?”

“Relax, it’s too fucking cold to come out. The fangirls are probably all tucked in their bed’s waiting for Santa to come spank them.”

“Did you do this deliberately? Are you trying to ruin the surprise for Ali?”

“Oh, fuck off, Ryan. You know she doesn’t do social media. It’s not hipster enough for her.”

“My future wife is not a fucking hipster.”

Ouch. That stung like a bitch. “How do you know she’ll say yes,” I bite out.

He sighs. “I don’t. I’m kinda hoping the element of surprise will blindside her into agreeing to marry me.”

I must grimace, because he flinches and for once, his pretty boy face doesn’t look so fucking constipated.

A thump against the front glass doors draws my attention away from Coop.

“Oh shit.” I straighten and turn to face the cabinets, away from the glass and the fangirl who just threw herself against it like a hungry zombie fromThe Walking Dead. Another thump, and my name is being called. Coop turns to see what the commotion is. He glares at me, but there’s a hint of sheer terror emanating from his steely blue gaze, because when I face the front doors, I find the zombie fangirls have multiplied—are multiplying—and now they’re not just screaming our names, but banging on the glass with gloved fists. The entrance is surrounded. Three security guards station themselves at the front door, but another plants himself right at the back entrance.

I glance at Ryan. Beads of sweat break out across his forehead, his eyes dart all around the room, and his chest rises and falls at an unnaturally rapid rate. He heads for the exit, driven by his need to escape the suddenly confined space, and I can tell we’re seconds away from one of his toddler tantrums. The store is huge, but Cooper Ryan turns into a little bitch the second he’s in a confined space. That’s why no lifts. He takes the stairs. The security guard shakes his head, his behemoth arms folded across his chest. Cooper backs away and flops down in a nearby chair, yelling at a sales girl to bring him the champagne. She scurries away, and I tell her to open several bottles because we’re likely going to need it.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and Cooper will keel over before he can buy the ring. Yeah, and maybe my giant cock and shining personality will win me back the girl of my dreams. With any luck, I’ll drink myself into a stupor and die of a broken heart right here on the floor of Tiffany’s surrounded by millions of dollars’ worth of ice.

A man can dream.

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