Page 120 of Broken on the Mountain
"Marry me."
The world stops. Because—
"What?"
"Marry me, Piper." He's not kneeling, not fumbling for a ring, just holding me close and looking at me like I'm the answer to every question he's ever asked. "I know it's fast, and I know your mom just called me adequate, and I know I should probably have a better plan than proposing on a deck in front of half the town, but I don't care. I love you. I want every day with you. I want to wake up next to you and argue about coffee and watch you boss people around at fundraisers. I want to build a life here, together. So... marry me?"
My eyes are burning, and my throat is tight, and I'm pretty sure I'm about to cry in front of everyone.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious."
"You don't even have a ring."
"I'll get you ten gummy rings. A hundred. But you'll have to wait until next month when Lily sends the next shipment." His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away the tears that are definitely falling now. "Just say yes."
And suddenly, it's the easiest decision I've ever made.
"Yes."
His smile could light up the entire mountain.
"Yeah?"
"Yes, you ridiculous man. Yes, I'll marry you."
He kisses me then, deep and sweet and full of promise, and somewhere in the background I hear cheering. Betty's crying. Travis is whooping. My mother is probably having a minor stroke, but I don't care because Chase Morrison—my adequate mountain man, my rescue hero, my home—just proposed to me at a fundraiser, and I said yes.
"Forever Friday just got a whole lot more permanent," he says.
"Good." I kiss him again, tasting prosecco and the future we're going to build together. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Epilogue II
Chase
Five Years Later
The wind picks up again, sending a wave of golden poppies and purple flowers swaying like they're dancing to music only they can hear.
I adjust my tie, the one Piper insisted I wear because'you can't get married in a flannel, Chase', and try not to grin like an idiot.
Keyword:try.
"Daddy, you're smiling too much."
I look down at our three-year-old daughter, Isabelle, who's clutching a small basket of wildflowers in one hand and half a gummy bear in the other. Her blonde hair—so much like Piper's—are already escaping the careful braids Brooke spent an hour on this morning, and there's a smudge of what I'm pretty sure is chocolate on her cheek.
She's perfect.
"Am I?" I crouch down to her level, straightening the tiny flower crown perched on her head. "How much smiling is too much?"
"This much." She demonstrates by stretching her mouth into an exaggerated grin that shows all her baby teeth.
"Oh, right. Got it, sweetie. I'll dial it back."
"Good." She pops the rest of the gummy bear into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. "Mama says you cry when you're happy. Are you gonna cry, Daddy?"
