Page 117 of Hometown Touchdown
Not because I was snooping. Because I was…assessing the situation. Like a responsible adult. Who happened to be barefoot, half-dressed, and crouched in front of the dryer door with one sock on her hand like a puppet.
“I’m telling you, she hasnoidea,” Knox’s voice came through the cracked kitchen door. He was on the phone, low and serious, that gravel-in-honey tone he gets when he’s concentrating.
There was a beat of silence, then a deep sigh.
“I’m gonna ask her soon,” he said. “I just want it to be right. Not flashy, just…ours.”
My heart immediately leapt into my throat and started doing the Macarena.
Ask her soon.
Not flashy.
Just ours.
Oh my God.
He’s going to propose.
I let out the tiniest squeak and immediately clamped both hands over my mouth, sock included.
My brain launched into a complete tailspin. Do I go back upstairs like I didn’t hear anything? Do I run in there and fake a heart attack to cover the fact that I’ve been loitering near the dryer like a raccoon with emotional baggage?
“I’ve already talked to her parents,” Knox continued, and I swear my soul briefly exited my body.
He talked to my parents?!
I’m sweating. Why am I sweating? It’s November. I was cold thirty seconds ago.
“She’s the one, man,” he added, and this time the softness in his voice nearly undid me. “I knew it the second she stormed into Gordy’s that first night with that look on her face like she was ready to kill me and kiss me at the same time. And I’d let her do both, if that’s what she needed.”
Well. That’s it.
I’m marrying this man even if he doesn’t ask. I’ll drag him to the altar kicking and screaming if I have to.
There was a rustling sound—like he was moving—and I panicked, bolting silently, dramatically, across the hall and diving into the downstairs bathroom like it was a bunker and I was under siege.
The door clicked shut just as I heard the fridge open. I pressed my back to the wall, heart hammering, half-laughing, half-freaking out, and entirely in love.
He’s going to ask me to marry him.
Chapter fifty-seven
Knox
Brynn’salwayshadtells—tinyones. Like how she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s holding something back. Or how she’ll stir her coffee long after the cream’s dissolved, eyes a little too focused, like she’s mentally editing the screenplay of her life and doesn’t like the next scene.
She’s doing that right now.
Only it’s not coffee this time, it’s soup. Tomato bisque from Lowery’s that she requested and now hasn’t eaten more than three spoonfuls of. Her head tucked into her hand, elbow onthe kitchen table, and her eyes keep flicking up at me and then darting away.
I lean against the counter, arms folded, pretending I haven’t noticed her acting like a middle-schooler hiding a note under her desk.
“Everything okay over there?” I ask, careful to keep my tone light.
She jumps a little, then immediately overcorrects with a too-bright smile. “Yep! Totally normal! Just…souping.”
Souping?
