Page 48 of Love You Truly

“I just need a ring,” I said, at which point he told Isla not to bother coming with him. I could hear him explaining, “He’s lost sight of reason. I’ll handle it.”

When we met at a different jewelry store, one that had rings with stones already in them, he peppered me with questions. “Who is she? How’d you meet? How’re you planning to propose?”

I gave him the party line Mallory and I came up with involving our messy meet-cute in the pickle aisle, our attempts to keep our romance under wraps, and my admission to how nuts I am about her.

He smiled and nodded as though he understood how that could happen. I know he felt that way when he met Isla, and he’s known me long enough that he sees beneath the facade other people around town think is the real Dashiell Corbett. “Glad you found someone good. You deserve it.”

He’s one of my oldest friends, so I debated coming clean with him and telling him it will be a marriage of convenience, but then I decided that the fewer the people who know, the better the odds of us pulling it off without anyone suspecting we’re not really in love.

The trip to the jewelry store was relatively painless because I told myself over and over that it was simply a business transaction. Buy the ring, marry the girl, see Buttercup Hill live to do business for another decade. Big picture thinking.

I didn’t tell Owen any of that, but on my drive back to Napa, it’s all I can think about. I know I’m making the right decision by agreeing to marry Mallory for the good of our family business.

With two older brothers who are seriously type A, it’s always been easier to take my place at the back of the line and let them do the heavy lifting on the financial and strategic end of Buttercup Hill. They’re exactly like my father, and it only makes sense for them to make the big decisions.

At least it did…

I may be friendlier and more outgoing than them, making me perfect for my job as the employee liaison. I’ll talk to anyone, and it’s easy to convince people to see things my way because I’m not an asshole about it. That’s the thing neither of my brothers seems to understand. A good attitude and a genuine smile go a long way.

But it doesn’t mean I’m not smart. It doesn’t mean I can’t be the one to save our business from financial ruin. And the idea of spearheading this nutty plan has me excited enough that I drove my ass to San Francisco at the crack of dawn to buy a ring.

And it has me driving straight to Mallory’s doorstep to deliver it.

I exit the highway and begin the drive up the narrower road toward Napa. I pass several farmstands, and after the third “you pick it” sign, I pull off into a small dirt lot next to rows of corn and tomatoes. I browse among the freshly picked produce and flowers and select a few items I hope Mallory will like.

It occurs to me that I don’t know so many things about her—her favorite flowers, how she likes her coffee, what kind of workout she does—but I’m actually excited to spend time finding out as we’re pushed together in this little ruse.

I tell myself that it’s just natural curiosity, that I’d be interested in getting to know anyone, that there’s nothing special about the woman who’s been on my mind all morning.

I’ll keep telling myself all of those things until I believe them.

Thirty minutes later, I’m knocking on Mallory’s door, having no idea what she does on a Saturday. For all I know, she could be in some Pilates class or riding a horse.

I almost dart back to my truck and speed the hell off her property. I’m a bundle of nerves, which is ridiculous. This isn’t a real proposal.

So why does it feel like a big fucking deal?

I should leave. Except that the front door is opening. Apparently, Mallory is home. She stands in front of me wearing a pale blue tank top that shows off bronzed skin that has no right to look that soft. My eyes trail down from her collarbones to the top's contours, making it clear she’s not wearing a bra. Curves all day long.

Good day for me to show up unexpectedly.

Because instead of standing here imagining what her breasts might look like under a filmy swatch of cotton, I have a complete picture. Her perky nipples bite through the fabric, and I can’t stop staring. Maybe I really am just a guy who ogles women for sport. At the moment, I’m an Olympic athlete at ogling, and I don’t feel one bit apologetic about it.

Until she clears her throat.

My eyes shoot back to her face, which has a decidedly confused and perturbed expression. Her pretty mouth turns down in a frown, and she squints at me as though I’m too bright to handle.

“Hi.” She crosses her arms over her chest like any sane person would when faced with a panting lapdog ready to lick her from head to toe.

“Hi.” I’m safer to start with that than blurt out inappropriate things about how good her long, bare legs look in the cutoff denim shorts she’s wearing.

“What are you doing here?” The confusion hasn’t left her face, and I realize she has a legitimate right to look at me that way, given that I showed up at her doorstep unannounced in the middle of a weekend when we didn’t plan to see each other.

“Right. That.” I had the entire drive up from San Francisco to come up with some idea of what to say to her, and right now, none of those thoughts occupy my brain. I feel like an awkward preteen boy standing before the prom queen on a dare.

Sometimes, when I look at Mallory, I feel like the geeky freshman I never actually was, thanks mostly to a deep voice and muscles that developed early. Now, I have sympathy for every one of my pale, skinny friends who struck out with girls on the regular.

Mallory clears her throat, making me realize I’m staring at her without explanation.

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