Page 84 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

My pulse races and a riotous beat drowns out the bar's ambient noise. I search his face, looking for the familiar playfulness, but instead, I find a certainty that sparks a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.

"Think about it, Rory. No more chasing fleeting moments. No more goodbyes at the door." His thumb grazes my cheek lightly, a silent underscore to his words. “You in my bed every single fucking night.”

The idea fans out before me like cards on a table, each one a different shade of life shared—a life with him.

Permanent.

It’s a vision I’ve entertained in secret daydreams, but now it’s out in the open, bold and unashamed.

“And what are you suggesting?” I manage, my voice a balancing act between anxiety and a leap of faith.

With a tender intensity in his green eyes, Wells shifts, dipping his hand into his pocket. "I’m talking about something that starts with a question," he says, with a gravity that tethers me to the spot.

Oh crap.

Time lulls into a heavy, waiting pause.

Two months and two weeks.

My breath catches because, for the first time, I understand the depth of a word I only thought I wanted to dance around.

Marriage.

And all at once, I know—I’m ready to hear that question.

Wells' hand emerges from his pocket, clasping a small black box that instantly commands my attention. He sinks to one knee. This simple act marks the beginning of a new trajectory for my life. The weight of it is not lost on me.

I can feel every eye lock on us as Wells looks up at me, and I’m frozen to my spot with underlying ease.

"Rory," he begins, his voice clear and sure, each syllable laced with tenderness. “I love you. I always love you. I want to make you the happiest woman alive. Will you—”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t let me finish my question.”

“You know I’m going to say yes.”

“To go to get ice cream later? Yes, baby, I know you will. But let me get this question out so I know, for sure, that we’re on the same page together.”

I shift my weight impatiently because this is Well’s form of torture when it comes to me. He loves this shit.

“Aurora Sellers—”

“You didn’t have that before in your first question,” I scold with narrowed eyes. “Now you’re just messing with me.”

“Says the woman who wore an ungodly tight dress just to make my dick stand to attention all night. Now, where were we?”

I glower at him, but he never wipes off that arrogant smirk. “Ah, yes, Aurora Sellers, the love of my life, will you marry me?”

“Oh, is that what you were going to ask me? I didn’t understand the whole knee and ring part.”

His brows clench because now the tables have turned, and I’m going to give him shit. “Ha ha.”

“I think I lost my answer somewhere between getting ice cream and—”

“Answer the damn question, Snowflake,” he grounds out. “Or I’ll just force the ring on your finger and tell your daddy you practically mauled me in a public place just to get it on.”

“You asked my dad?”

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