Page 115 of The Games We Play

Which is why the ring I bought a month ago feels like a fucking anvil in my pocket.

She steps to the side and I match her movement, stepping around the table that holds my latest painting. The one I need her to come see.

She moves around the room effortlessly as she observes all the images on the canvas.

It’s all the colors and different ways I see her.

“Seamus, these are beautiful.” She’s glancing around the room as she passes by me, completely absorbed before she turns, stops, and stares at the one sitting on the easel, still drying.

I should have waited, but I couldn’t.

Stepping behind her, I watch as she takes in the figures on the canvas.

A man, kneeling on one knee behind a woman, surrounded by paintings. And it’s exactly as I planned.

She gasps, realizing what it represents. She turns around, seeing me with one knee planted and my fingers wrapped around a little, black velvet box.

I swallow thickly, the foreign feeling of vulnerability races up my spine because I want nothing more than for her to be minefor the rest of my life. I bought the ring the first chance I got after coming back home from Texas, because the thought of losing her again is my biggest fear.

I know it’s only been a few months since the night at Afterburn, but it’s been over a decade that I’ve known she’s the one.

“There’s only one thing I’m scared of in this world. It’s living a life without you in it. It’s the nightmare of the last ten years, knowing you were out there, but completely unattainable. You give me so much purpose and meaning that I probably don’t deserve, but I’ll spend a lifetime proving it, because I’ll never stop loving you.”

My throat bobs as I swallow down my nerves, opening the little black box. “Will you marry me?”

Her breath hitches as the tear that was threatening to fall drops down her cheek, hiding behind her hands that now cover her mouth.

The pink diamond is bright, rare, and represents everything she is perfectly. The tip of the pear shaped diamond shines with the slight tremble of my fingers, and it feels like an hour has gone by without an answer.

“Yes.” A muffled squeal echoes behind her hands. Her head nods up and down and her eyes are beaming with happiness.

I stand, relieved, and so goddamn happy. I pick her up and twirl her around with an unrelenting smile. Her hands cup my face and she presses her lips to mine. Fuck, she tastes like sugar and vanilla with the scent of lavender that whips around us as I place her down on the table covered with my paints, not giving a shit about the mess.

Her mouth drops open as she leans into one ass cheek, inspecting her jeans.

She reaches behind her, worry laces her expression and she pats her back pockets and sighs in relief.

“What is it?” I ask, as I roam my hands behind her, running my hand over the spots where I know she’s ticklish.

“Don’t!” She giggles, attempting to pull my hands away, and I realize she is actually hiding something.

“Wait…youarehiding something.” My face squints with concern, as I try to look around the back of her.

“Don’t.” She jumps off the table and shimmies around me, not turning back to me.

“Roshambo for it?” I hold my hand out in my palm. A close lipped smile dresses my face because I know she can’t turn this down.

She turns on her heel, her head held high, palm in hand.

“But, I always choose paper,” she says, her snarky tone on full blast.

“You won’t this time,” I reply, still smiling.

But, she will.

One. Two. Three, beating our fists into our palms.

Annnnnnnd, my scissors cut her paper.

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