Page 164 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

“Marry me.”

Just like that. No warning.

I stare at him, waiting for him to pull out my fucking ring and drop to one knee. But he just stands there, staring back like he’s expecting an answer.

“No ring?” I tease, but it’s not a joke. I’mpissed. I didn’t work this fucking hard, studying him, pursuing him, seducing him, picking off that pod of orcas he calls a family to be proposed to, ringless, in a fucking elevator!

“We can pick one out tomorrow,” he says nervously. “You can get whatever you want. I just want you.”

Well…

Okay.

That works.

I nod. Not because it’s romantic, because it ain’t, but because I still won. Maybe it didn’t look exactly how I wanted it to, but the destination is the same.

The man did kill for me, after all.

He kisses me, and I let him, but in my head, I’m already rewriting the story. Maybe bae surprised me with a ring in front of Lincoln Memorial. No, the African American History Museum. Or maybe during a private tour of the White House. Not sure yet, but it will be big. It’ll be magical.

Because unlike Meghan Markle, I write my own fucking fairy tales.

The next morning, Ace wakes me up with room service, silver domes and all, like we’re in a movie. Mimosas, some kind of fancy omelet, croissants, a fruit plate with little sprigs of mint tucked between the berries—and it’s all for me. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. I know I look a mess, but he stares at me, smiling like I’m the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Good morning, future Mrs. Taylor,” he says. “You ready to go pick out your ring?”

I should play it cool. Make him sweat a little for giving me such a dusty ass proposal last night. But I can’t. My whole face breaks into a smile. I’m finding out the hard way that it’s very difficult to hide true happiness. It shines through no matter how hard you try to tuck it away.

“Where are we going? Zales? Kay? Claire’s?” I tease, sipping my mimosa.

He grins, taking his own mimosa to the head. “Nah. We have an appointment at Tiffany’s.”

I’ve never been, but I do know there’s no ‘s’ at the end.

Black people.

“The blue one?” I say, my excitement rising. “Like, the actual blue store?”

He nods. “Eat your food, baby. There’s plenty of time.”

But I’m not even hungry any more. I throw the covers off and run to the bathroom, leaving him laughing on the bed.

It feels like a palace up in here.

The lights, the glass, the colors…everything’s bright and airy. It looks and feels and evensmellslike wealth.

But I’m gonna act like I’ve been somewhere.

The sales associate greets us at the door. She’s thin and wiry and looks like she comes from old money and does Pilates four times a week. She smiles at us like she knows we’re not just here to browse.

“Welcome to Tiffany and Company, Mr. Taylor. Miss,” she says, giving me a subtle once over. I don’t know why she’s eyeing me, though. It’s not like I’m dressed like Julia Roberts inPretty Woman. I look normal. I lift my chin a little higher, letting her know I belong here, too.

Ace’s hand is warm on my back as she leads us to a private room. There’s champagne on the table, soft jazz playing through hidden speakers, and a velvet-lined tray with rings so sparkly and pretty, they make me feel like a princess.

“Pick anything you want,” Ace says softly, close to my ear.

It’s overwhelming, honestly, all the cushion cuts and emerald cuts, solitaires and halos. Emily does her best to explain things to me, but all I can see is sparkle.

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