Page 121 of The Crush of Christmas Past
It would hardly make sense to spring a surprise proposal on a woman who just started believing in happy endings. Plus, I’m pretty damn sure she’d want to wear her mom’s ruby engagement ring over anything I could source from this store.
As I duck into the back office in search of the custom-made piece I commissioned, I hear her mutter, “What if I wouldn’t mind worrying?”
Rushing back to the showroom floor, I hold out a white velvet case. “Please accept this piece of jewelry that inno wayis meant for any of your fingers.”
She stares at it like she’s trying to calculate its blast radius.
“It’s not a trap,” I assure her. “Just a nonthreatening necklace. Put me out of misery and take a look.”
Her eyes narrow, but she takes hold of the box. As soon as she cracks the lid open, her breath hitches. “A key?”
“Not just any key. It’s a miniature replica of the Sugarpine Springs town key.”
Her throat constricts as she lifts the dainty necklace out by its fine chain. The pendant swings, gleaming beneath the overhead lights.
“A reminder that you belong,” I explain. “That this place isn’t just your past. It’s your future, too. Historyandhome.”
“Theo…” She looks up at me with eyes that are too wide, too wet, and doing extremely hazardous things to my heart.
“This is…” she starts, but the sentence dissolves on a broken sob. A happy one. “I love it. I love—” She lets out a shaky laugh before winding her arms around my neck and pulling me into a soul-consuming kiss. “I love everything about today.”
“Everything?” I prompt.
“Everything,” she confirms, wild heart beating against mine.
Good enough.
Thirty-Five
Isla
I’minlovewithTheo Thorne.
I’ve loved some version of him—ofus—since I was nineteen, but what I feel for this man now goes far beyond nostalgia. It’s stronger than a mere memory. Deeper than any teenage dream.
This love is raw, real, and earned. Rooted in simplicity and anchored in the day-to-day rituals that have quietly become our life.
We’ve put sincere effort into finding our rhythm over the past six weeks. Monday mornings, Theo drives us to the city, his fingers laced with mine across the console as the rising sun paints the windshield gold. We stay at his apartmentwhile he works on reviving his company post–VorVex Tech disaster. I tackle freelance design work for an NXT division he doesn’t oversee—a boundary we established early and continue to protect fiercely.
Wednesdays find me on the bus back to Sugarpine Springs, his cologne still clinging to my clothes as I throw myself into portfolio-building projects. He stays behind, buried in meetings and deadlines, but never misses a call before bed.
Thursday nights, he returns to me, exhaustion melting from his face the second my arms slip around him. Fridays and Saturdays, we work side-by-side in my cramped apartment, our laptops battling for control of a dining table too small to contain a pair of creatives with poor cord management skills.
Sundays are sacred. No deadlines. No alarms. Just us. And sometimes, the loud, loving chaos of his family.
It’s not perfect, but it works. Becausewework.
I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
I love him.
I. Love. Him.
And I want him to know.
Not tomorrow. Not next week.
Tonight.
