Page 71 of His Jersey

She looks at her left hand. “When I was a kid and I’d play princess, I always wore a paperclip ring.”

“I think we can do better than that.”

“But they’re onto us,” she whispers like we’re involved in a crime ring.

“But what if they were wrong?” I ask, my thoughts suddenly crystalline like ice.

“Wrong about what?”

“What if you really were my fiancée?” I blurt, having wanted to say so earlier in the bathroom. “Being fake is foolish. I’m a man. I don’t fake anything.”

“And I don’t date billionaires.”

“You were with a fake billionaire. I’m the real deal.”

“But this is still a deal.”

I will not push her or force this, but could she really not be interested in me? That would be a first and I’m not bragging. Just saying. I don’t feel rejected so much as more attracted to Ella because she’s definitely the real deal.

A smile rises to my lips, and I say, “You said you wouldn’t date a billionaire. You never said anything about not wanting to be engaged to one.”

Her eyes widen and I consider getting lost in them for a little while … a long while, perhaps. A lifetime?

Her voice snaps me back to reality and my ears heat. I’ve never felt like this about a woman.

“Circling back to how I mentioned that we hardly know each other …”

“I know that you like cookies and sunny mornings, glossy pink nail polish, sandals, and smiling.”

Frowning, she asks, “How can you know if someone likes smiling?”

“You do it a lot.” I grip the sides of her jaw and gently rub my thumbs on her soft skin. “Except right now.”

But then the corners of her mouth twitch as if she’s suppressing a grin.

“See?” My lips twist.

It’s adorable to watch her try not to smile … and I’d be a big fat liar if I denied that I hope some of her smiles are because of me.

Stammering, Ella says, “I don’t know your favorite color, when you think it’s okay to start listening to Christmas music, whether you put extra cheese and pepper flakes on your pizza or if?—”

Taking her hand, we walk down the street, taking a few turns, and stop in front of the first pizza place I see. It’s a hole in the wall, in the best kind of way, and since we walked out on dinner, I’m hungry and imagine Ella is too.

Dressed up for a five-star restaurant, we look starkly out of place as a family corrals their kids into a booth, the counter helper calls, “Large pizza for Hastings,” and a couple of teens wage war on the Pac-Man machine.

We reach the counter and I gesture that Ella order first.

“A slice of plain cheese, please.” Her shoulders relax.

“Anything to drink?” the man with the mustache asks.

She looks to me as if asking if it’s okay.

“Anything your heart desires, darling.”

Her smile reaches her eyes. “Orange soda, please.”

“And for you?” the counter guy asks.

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