Page 1 of That Moment
Prologue
Adrienne—Six Months Earlier…
Denver looks good on me. Being surrounded by civilization, real linens on the table instead of plastic, and actual crystal wine glasses. Then again, it’s probably just the beaded Oscar de la Renta gown I broke out for tonight.
Focus Adrienne.
Candlelight bounces across the white tablecloth that stretches between us. I smooth my dress, cross my legs, and pretend I’m not watching Keegan like a prosecutor waiting for the witness to crack. I squint my eyes as if that will help me listen better.
What was he saying?
He shifts again. Tap, tap, tap, his fingers on the wineglass stem.
Why is he so nervous tonight?
I glance over my shoulder casually, trying to assess the crowd at the restaurant to see if maybe it’s an overly enthusiastic fan that doesn’t understand privacy, but nobody is looking our way.
He clears his throat. Checks his jacket pocket again, like he’s hiding something in there that might run away. I narrow mygaze, trying to make out what he’s clutching at, when my throat goes tight.
There it is. A small, square bulge beneath charcoal wool. My stomach drops so fast the room tilts.
Oh God. Is that a—Smile, Adrienne. Breathe.I grab my glass of wine and take a generous swallow. Too generous.Do not puke into the sommelier’s pride and joy cab that cost a small fortune.
“Everything okay?” I ask sweetly, attempting to keep my voice steady once I manage to swallow down the wine.
“Yeah,” he says, a heartbeat too quick. “You look… wow, by the way. I meant to say something earlier, I’m sorry.” He drags his eyes over me, and I offer a flirty smile. “That dress is stunning on you. The pink was a good choice.”
“Thank you.” He’s not wrong. I made sure to put in a little extra effort tonight when he mentioned going out in Denver. Not that I don’t always look my best, but when you’re dating one of the hottest MLB players in the league and the hometown hero, there’s always that looming fear of the paparazzi catching you looking a mess.
So I made sure to pick out the perfect dress for tonight. The dress that made the salesgirl gasp and offer a whisperedyeswhen I walked out of the fitting room. And while I know I look like a million bucks, Cartier on my wrist, YSL on my feet, confidence on my face… underneath it all is raging chaos.
Ring-shaped chaos to be specific.
I nod at the server’s monologue about aged beef like I’m not currently mentally rehearsing a script if Keegan Fuller asks me to marry him. He orders for us. I let him, because it keeps my mouth from blurting out something in a panic. Not to mention, I’m about two seconds away from choking on my own tongue.
Option A:Yes, but maybe we should keep it a secret for a while…like a year?
Option B:Maybe, circle back in six months, I have a quarterly review, and a fear of commitment.
God, my brain. Harvard Law prepared me for hostile depositions and miles of paperwork, not surprise diamonds from sexy baseball stars with rock-hard abs and forearms that would make a nun weep. Not wanting to marry him has nothing to do with his looks or his abilities in bed, that’s for sure.
You’re crazy, Adrienne. Women are literally lining up to take your place! He’s loyal, respectful, honest, and hot as fucking hell. Is it really that big of a deal that you barely see him with your schedules or that you accidentally pictured Scotty Bescher instead of Keegan once or twice?
Keegan smiles, a little tight, and I love that he’s trying. He does that a lot. Tries. Shows up when he can, texts me good luck before a big meeting, and lets me wear his Rockies cap when I pretend to understand RBIs. But baseball is a jealous mistress. She wants him on the road, training, asleep on planes. She wants him to play a hundred and sixty-two games a year and then some. She doesn’t care that he’s trying to build a relationship with me.
He adjusts in his chair, shoulders a bit too broad for this delicate room, and I’m suddenly remembering every time Aunt Celeste or Aunt Brennan made a joke about men liking a woman who can travel light when they were helping me move in college.
I can travel light if I need to. I have the luggage to prove it. But a fiancé who lives on plains and in dugouts, who signs balls for girls in crop tops while I pretend I don’t care… can I travel that lightly?
Focus. He’s talking.
“Adrienne.” He leans in, awkwardly looking down at his elbows before pulling them off the table. His voice drops like he’s about to whisper something only meant for my ears. The smallbox flashes again as his jacket pulls, and my heart slams so hard I almost miss the first sentence.
Say yes. Say no. Say I need a shot and a month to think about it.
“Sorry, what?” I smile too brightly, my fingers strangling the stem of a very expensive cabernet.
He laughs nervously, his hand grazing his pocket. I force a breath. I picture my dad’s face if I show up home with a ring. Hudson Slade, unflappable, is trying so hard not to smirk because his girl is grown, while my mom holds back tears. My triplet brothers, Axel and Aiden, are pretending to grill Keegan while also being more excited about having an MLB star in the family than anything. My aunt Celeste, my mentor, asked me ten very smart questions about the prenup.
