Page 58 of Yes No Maybe

She exhales sharply. “I hurt him. He needs a little time to remember his luck, I think.”

“He shouldn’t need time to remember that.”

“What would you have done? You finally find the woman you want to spend your life with, go through a gorgeous, public proposal, and she blurts out a non-answer.”

“What would I have done? That’s easy. I would’ve kissed you like you’ve never been kissed before, until the only answer was yes.”

An insistent tug releases her hand from mine. She looks bothered. Flushed, even.

So, I push further. “Course, I never would’ve proposed to you like that. On stage in front of everyone—that’s not romantic. It’s a fucking circus. No, you’re more of a beach-at-sunset kind of girl. No, wait… I’d tie the ring to a bookmark and tuck it into whatever book you’re reading. Then, I’d circle relevant words on the page—love, lovely, sexy, whatever—a romantic annotation that only you could appreciate. Then, I’d slap a sticky note in there…Marry me, Rowan.See? Nothing forced or nervous. Just you, about to do the thing you love most and being quietly delighted by the person you love most. Perfect, right?”

Her face tells me all I want to know. Not only are her heartstrings pulled, but yanked hard enough for her to imagine it. A quiet, lovely, bookish proposal. Sweeter still, I don’t think it’s Dean she imagines.

The serene look on her face holds me in place. I mean every word, like a memory that hasn’t happened yet. I see myself peeking around a corner, waiting for her to discover it, waiting for heryeslike it’s my first breath.

Shit, what the fuck is happening to me?

She quickly comes to her senses, clearing her throat and setting her glass aside. “Um… another sign of too much wine—Jack Graham dishing out marriage proposals.” Her laugh emerges half-heartedly.

“Admit it—that would get ayes.”

“Yes, no, maybe. You never know with me. I don’t care how it happens, only that Dean asks me again. I’ll give the right answer next time.”

“Really? The guy backpedaled on his proposal and abandoned you for the summer—he doesn’t seem like much of a Prince Charming.”

“Oh, I don’t need a prince. A squire will do fine. Or a duke. Hell, even the local bookbinder could make me happy.”

Her joke falls flat this time. I shake my head at her, saddened by how little she thinks of herself. “Damn, Rowan. If you’re going to bother being with someone, why not hold out for someone who at least makes you happy?”

“He does. He will.” A light shrug stops her useless convincing. “Mom and Mira have given me a hard time about Dean from the beginning, but they don’t get it—he’s a good man who wants to be with me. Or did. Is it wrong to hope that everything will be okay? That this one mess-up won’t be my sliding door to a miserable, lonely life?”

“It’s not wrong to hope, but are those your only choices? Dean or misery? You should hope for more doors.”

Nineteen

Rowan

Hopingformoredoorsis a romantic ideal that makes sense for Jack Graham. He’s picture-perfect, bite-my-lip sexy, and has a heart-racing way with words—doors open for him automatically. Marcy’s remark about Jack and book signings—too many women hitting on him at once—probably isn’t an exaggeration. In a different life, I’d be one of those women desperate to catch the eye of the man behind the amazing love stories, and wishful that such a thing could happen.

But things like thatdon’thappen to me. Romances make promises that reality doesn’t keep—it’s an unfair genre. Spending time with Jack feels unfair, too. The way he looks at me, touches me, talks to me, tickles hope that shouldn’t be there. I can’t hope for more doors, but I must try to reopen the one I have.

Tonight’s the night!Rose’s text alert arrives as I cross the gully into our neighborhood from my morning run. It’s barely eight, but rental trucks, caterers, and event planners descend on Jack’s place like bees to a hive. I catch my breath on the grassy knoll and let out an embarrassing screech when firecrackers pop and squeal from Tom and Marcy’s backyard.

My phone alights again.WECT mentions Jack! TOU gets great reviews!

“It’s tradition,” Rose explained the other day over tea. “Whenever Jack releases a book, we set off fireworks and airhorns when he’s mentioned on TV or jumps up on the bestseller lists. It’s an all-day celebration.”

A cleansing breath relieves my sudden tension at the noises, and I stretch-walk the rest of the way home. At the door, my phone chimes again, this time from Jack.

Is it okay to say “disabled person?”

Put people first. “A person with a disability.”

I tuck my phone away, smiling, and trudge inside. The last two weeks have been quiet. Jack and I have occasional book talks as I work through my long reading list, and only then when we run into each other at the mailbox or in the driveway. He’s been writing nearly nonstop.

But he texts often. Questions like,Is gregarious just a pompous way to say friendly? Don’t you hate easily confused words like exasperated and exacerbated?

Yes. Yes.And just two days ago…

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