Page 14 of Lock 'em Down

“Wild?” I release her hand to hold up my wrist. “Wilder than getting matching tattoos? This ink is permanent, babe. You and me—we’re marked together for life.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, taking my hand again and tugging me toward her destination. “We could up the ante.”

I laugh. “What game are we betting on?”

She rolls her lips together, that sparkle in her eyes bright and tempting. “Game of life, Leif.”

“What?” I snort, letting her drag me to…a fucking chapel.

“Leif.” Cami spins to look at me. Her smile is big and blinding. Excitement dances in her eyes and the hopeful anticipation in her expression hits me right in the chest. “Will you marry me?”

Fuck. My heartbeat kicks behind my breastbone and my ability to breathe short-circuits. This incredible woman—smart, sexy, and so damn enthusiastic—is looking at me like she sees me.

Me. Leif Bang.

Not the hockey player. Not the screwup. Not the fun dude down to shred waves or funnel a beer.

Me. With all the parts no one takes the time to get to know. The parts no one cares about.

A flicker of nerves zips over her expression and before she can voice it—before she can rescind her brave offer—I step forward and take her hand. “It’d be a goddamn honor, Cami.”

She smiles shyly and it steals my breath.

“Hey, is that your full name?”

She rolls her lips together. “It’s Camille.”

“Camille. That’s beautiful.”

Her smile widens. “Thank you. Are you sure about this?”

I smirk and glance at the chapel behind her. “Are you sure, babe? I don’t want you to have any regrets. Ever.” As I say the words, I realize I mean them. I’d hate for her to look back and wish she did something differently. Maybe that’s why I hate the thought of her crunching numbers in a fucking cubicle when she could be out in the world, creating art and inspiring strangers.

“I never have regrets,” she assures me. “Not anymore.” She taps her ribs where her first tattoo is scrawled. “Open eyes, remember?”

I pause for a beat, wondering what happened in her past to make her state a claim so boldly. Yet, for some strange reason, I believe her. I mean, we barely know each other and yet, there’s a connection between us. Something deeper than a random night out. Something more meaningful than a series of tequila shots and general conversation.

I get her; she sees me. And right now, we’re standing in front of an adorable chapel, and I fucking want to call her my wife. Because men like me don’t meet women like Cami.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I tell her. Now would be the opening to admit I’m a hockey player. But, why? She asked me to marry her, not the NHL persona people clamor around. Me.

“I know enough.”

“I don’t have a ring.”

She shrugs. “Don’t need one.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, you do.” I give her fingers a little squeeze and drop her hand. “Give me two minutes. Don’t move.” I point at her.

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t you move, Camille,” I call over my shoulder as I jog back across the street. I make quick work of slipping into the gas station, and eyeing one of those old-fashioned gumball machines that never spits out gumballs. Instead, it’s a handful of Skittles or a small egg with a random surprise in it.

“Hey dude, can I get change?” I hand the cashier a twenty-dollar bill.

He doesn’t even bat an eye. Another night in Vegas, I guess.

He hands me rolls of quarters and I shove some into the machine, turning the dial until a small plastic egg pops out. It’s a little bear. I try again. A dinosaur. Nope.

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