Page 1 of The Proposal
CHAPTER1
Blakely
“Could you die quietly?” Ella sighs, pulling her sunglasses down and squinting into the sunlight. “And maybe do it over there, please?”
Two quintessential frat boys, a label I’d bet my life on yet feels like a disservice to fraternities everywhere, cease their constant complaints about being hungover. Their whining is a show, a pathetic effort to gain attention, and one we’re over—especially Ella.
They fire a dirty look at my best friend. She cocks a brow, challenging them right back, and waits.
Lying on the chaise next to her, I smirk.How many seconds will it take for them to realize they’re outgunned by a five-foot-three pistol with bubble-gum pink toenails?
Eight … Nine … Ten …
They gather their things quietly, watching Ella like she might toss them into the pool if they don’t act quickly enough.
I wouldn’t be shocked if that happened, either.
Ella St. James doesn’t surprise me much anymore. She carried a tray of freshly baked snickerdoodle cookies when she rang my doorbell three years ago. She was adorable, wearing an apron with embroidered cherries and a white silk ribbon in her hair while welcoming me to the Nashville neighborhood. It starkly contrasted with the following weekend when she took me out so I couldget acquainted with the city. That night ended with Ella jacking some guy’s jaw for trying to grope me on the dance floor and me picking her up from the police station in an Uber at three in the morning.
“Thank you,” she says, sliding the glasses up her nose and returning to her book.
Las Vegas is sweltering. Blue water sparkles just inches from our feet, and I swear it only amplifies the sun’s rays. We should probably get a massage or go shopping to beat the unbearable heat, but I didn’t fly for almost four hours to stay inside.
I could’ve celebrated my new job and birthday like that in Tennessee.
“How do you think I would look with red hair?” I ask, stretching my legs in front of me. “Not bright cherry red, but a more purple-y, crimson-y red.”
“No.”
I furrow my brows. “That wasn’t a yes or no question.”
“I was cutting to the chase.” Her fingertip trails along the bottom of the paperback. “That’s not the question you were really asking.”
It wasn’t? I settle against my chair.Yeah, it wasn’t.
It was a last-minute attempt at being young and reckless before I turn thirty tomorrow.
This whole birthday crap has been a bit of a mind fuck.
I’ve lived the past ten years with little abandon. I’ve traveled, dated, and swam with sharks. Went on a ten-city tour with a rock band. Attended a movie premiere, got engaged (and unengaged), and ate pizza at the world’s oldest pizzeria in Naples.Check that off the bucket list. And with every year of fun, I assumed I had nothing to worry about—that I would have my shit together before I turned thirty and became a real adult.
That was an incorrect assumption.
By all accounts, I should be in a stable relationship and burdened with a mortgage and enough debt to bury my soul until Jesus returns. Appliances should excite me. I should have a baby.I should understand life insurance. Instead, I just broke up withanotherbad boy with commitment issues, re-upped the rental contract on my townhouse, and refilled my birth control.
But that all ends in six hours. I have to turn over a new leaf when the sun comes up. It’s time.
Ella’s book snaps closed. “This is not a tri-life crisis, Blakely. It’s just a birthday.”
“I know that.”
“But do you?”
“Yes, I do,” I say, mocking her. “I’m not in crisis mode. I’m just transitioning into this new era of buying eye cream and freezing my eggs, and it’s a little … terrifying.”
She sighs. “You’ve been buying eye cream for years.”
“Yeah, as a hedge against the future. Thisisthe future.”
