Page 46 of Proposal Play

I fly up. Maeve has a party tonight, and this is all my fault. I should have set triple alarms even though I never sleep in like this. I never sleep this deeply. I turn to rouse Maeve, but she’s not in the bed. Rushing out of it, I pad to the bathroom and raise a fist to knock but stop short when the door swings open.

She’s dressed in jeans and one of her signature T-shirts with a slogan on it—In My Defense, I Was Left Unsupervised—which is so very Maeve. And so’s the fact that it slopes down one shoulder, and just like that all the breath escapes my lungs. My flamingos are at full attention.

“Huh,” I manage to grit out.

“Hi,” she says with anI know what you meantsmile as she pats my bare shoulder. It’s the friendliest get-a-move-on gesture in the world. Hmm. Is she sending me a message? Like,get over last night, buddy? “We need to go. The airline canceled our earlier flight, so now we’re on the one-thirty,” she says, cheery, but also just shy of frantic. “I tried to wake you up ten times, and you kept telling me you wanted to sleep a few more minutes.”

“Don’t listen to me,” I say, a little annoyed at myself. But maybe good sleep seduced me. No time to mull on it though. I turn slightly so I can try to angle my way past her without her noticing I’m too turned on by her.

“You’re a lot bigger and a lot meaner when you’re half-asleep.”

“Meaner than you?”

“Shocking, but yes,” she says, looking dewy and freshly made up, her loose waves of golden-brown hair piled in one of those artfully messy buns that look impossible to do. Seriously, I’ve watched her loop all those strands through a scrunchie, and it still makes as much sense to me as the alchemy women perform when they take their bras off through their sleeves. More girl sorcery for you. “Our car is coming in fifteen minutes,” she says as she sails past me, clearly ready to leave this city behind.

But I’m stuck on last night. Maybe that pat on my chestwasa message. Not simply to get a move on now, but to move past it.

Yeah. That’s what I need to do—let it go. Which’d be easier if my best friend wasn’t such a bombshell. I steal one more glance at her, my chest aching as she retreats into the bedroom with her makeup bag. As she sets itdown in her suitcase, I catch sight of that gleaming gold ring on her finger. The reminder that she’s not just my friend. She’s my wife. For another day or so till we get this union annulled back in San Francisco. Something nags at me though, an unformed thought, as I call out, “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“We don’t have much time.”

“Don’t worry. I shower like you come,” I say.

She snaps her gaze back at me. “Who’s the mean one now?”

Before I can think the better of it, I say dryly, “You are, since you left me hanging last night.”

Her jaw drops as I shut the door. With this annoying erection—which is the story of my last twelve hours—I consider locking it, but then…would I really be bothered if she came in while I showered?

No, I wouldn’t.

Even though it would be a very bad idea. Especially since we’re in two very different places, it seems. But she doesn’t ever need to know I’m feeling more for her than the one-night-only variety of lust.

She doesn’t come into the bathroom while I’m showering though. And I don’t jack off under the stream of water either, since how pathetic would it be if I were late for our rescheduled flight on account of flying solo beforehand?

I’d hate myself more then.

Ten minutes later, we’re both dressed and hustling out of our room when I stop suddenly at the door, the unformed thought taking shape now. “We should take off our rings,” I say, feeling like a douche for saying that. But it’s necessary douchery.

Maeve doesn’t even blink. “Good thinking.”

We tug off our bands, tuck them away, then leave Las Vegas. No one will know what happened last night but Beckett.

And no one will know how much more I wanted to happen.

Later that afternoon, when the plane touches down in San Francisco, Maeve lets out a relieved sigh, her shoulders visibly relaxing. “I need to get to that party in two hours,” she says, checking the time on her phone with a small frown of concern. She read some on the short flight—one of her mother’s books calledIf Found, Please Return.One I’ve seen her read before. Many times. But she didn’t make it through too many pages. I get it. She’s probably stressed about the party.

“Do you need supplies or something?” I ask, as the stress flickers across her face.

“I do. I’ll go home, grab them, then call a Lyft,” she says, biting her lip, clearly calculating the logistics. But that sounds like a lot to deal with in a short amount of time.

“I’ll help you,” I say quickly. I feel terrible that she’s cutting it close for such an important job. If I hadn’t wanted to win big at the auction, she might not be in this time-crunch right now.

“Really?” Her eyes widen, a ray of hope softening her expression.

“Yeah, really,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. But maybe I’m trying to prove to myself that I can jump right back into the friend zone too. “No big deal.”

“Thank you. It’s a lot to wrestle with,” she admits.

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