Page 182 of The Christmas Wife

He glares at me from under hooded eyelids. He lowers the cigar, blows out a cloud of cigar smoke. The scent of cloves and spices, of darkness and lust, passion and fucking... Hell... I'll always associate the scent of cigar smoke with wild, out-of-my-head desire.

He doesn't move, doesn't say a word.

I shuffle closer, my toe brushing against something smooth. There's a plop as it falls in. I glance down to find an egg timer floating on the surface.

I bend my knees, reach over and scoop it up.

He glances down at the object, then up at my face. His lips twist, he swallows and opens his mouth, and I'm sure he's going to say something. Instead, he takes another swig from the bottle of whiskey. The skin across his knuckles stretches white... Huh? I peer across the distance and at his features... Lines radiate from the corners of his eyes, and the hollows under his cheekbones seem more pronounced. Why had I not noticed that before?

He keeps his gaze focused on my face, the skin around his mouth tightening. That's it—something’s on his mind. But what? Why would the most confident man I have ever met seem unsure of himself.

"Why are you so on edge?" I laugh nervously. "I'd think you were going to pop a marriage proposal or something,” I mutter, “if I didn't know you better."

His face pales. My gaze widens. I take in the way he holds onto the whiskey bottle. The skin of his knuckles stretch white. Then the bottle slips from his grasp, hits the decking and rolls away... "Fuck." He swears, then straightens. His lips twist. An expression I can't fathom grips his features.

"Holy shit." I gasp, "Is that what you are going to do...? I gulp. "No way. You aren't, are you?"

Again, he glares at the stupid egg timer I am holding. What the hell? I stare down at the curved object, raise it, fiddle around with it. I twist it and it comes apart in my hands, revealing something shiny, something with a perfectly-cut sapphire that winks back at me.

My throat dries. My heart begins to thud. "What...what is this?" I squeak.

"A fucking gummy bear," he growls, "what do you think it is?"

"I... I..." I glance at the ring, then back at him, then at the ring again.

"How... how long have you been planning this?"

"Since I met you?" He tilts his head, "Strike that. From before I met you. The ring was my grandmother's."

"Oh!"

"You mean oh, yes, don't you?" he drawls.

"Wait, wait." I draw in a breath.Stay calm, don't lose it now.Need time to think, just a bloody second here. I tip up my chin, train my gaze on him, "How did you rig the timer toaccommodate it, considering I was gone for less than half an hour?"

He yawns.

"Of course. You repair clocks, so you could adjust a stupid egg timer, huh?" I pout.

"Not apologizing for the fact that I pulled off an almost-miracle, babe." He thrusts out his chest, "Besides it is Christmas."

"Wow," I stare. "Seems you're getting into the spirit of the season, after all?"

"As you are coming around to the idea of our wedding."

"Yes." I nod.

"So, it's settled then." He grins.

"What?" I shake my head. "No, no, no, I didn't mean it that way. I mean, not yet... I mean... What the hell!" I exclaim. "This can't be happening."

"It is." He shakes out his palm—the one with which he'd gripped the whiskey bottle.

"Did you hurt your good hand? I ask.

"I've been hurting in other places since I met you," he grumbles.

"Anyone ever tell you, you have the manners of an oaf?" I scowl.

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