Page 116 of L.O.V.E

Will you marry me?

I laughed.

Crazy woman.

For the first time, I took time to study her place. The kitchen was clean, tidy. Simple. White granite counters. Stainless steel appliances. Turquoise tea kettle on the stove. Bright floral curtains on the window, a bright yellow dishtowel hanging on a hook near the sink.

Her living room was much the same. White walls, bright orange couch. Splashes of yellows and greens in the throw blankets, pillows, and artwork. A wall-to-wall window boasted a priceless view of the lake.

The hallway leading to the bedrooms held framed photos of her family, candids of her and Lacey. At least ten of baby Leon.And holy shit, photos of me, too. Some blown up and framed. A few looked as if they’d been printed from home and tacked to the wall. Most of them taken when I wasn’t looking. Some of me sleeping. One of me through the window of CFC, mid spar with Ellis.

Yeah. She was mine. But I’d been hers from day one.

I forced my feet forward when I wanted to fall to my knees in gratitude.

Natalie’s bedroom showed a side of her I’d yet to fully explore. Shades of purples and grays and beige. Her bed was thick with pillows, soft and inviting. Sheer curtains gave the room a hazy glow, the scant moonlight encasing her bed.

Will you marry me?

I fell into her down comforter, pulled her pillow over my face, and breathed her in, my body and soul resting as if I’d returned home from a long journey.

I’d never be lonely sharing space with Natalie.

I’d never wake to cold, empty sheets.

Eventually, we’d have to exchange the queen-size bed for a king to fit children. Sundays would be lazy days, sleeping in, sipping coffee, reading. Chasing kids around the house.

Will you marry me?

I’d never wanted anything more.

“How’s she doing?”

“Good. She’s with her parents.” I scooted to the chair closest the window, blinking against the glare from the lake. “What’d you find out?”

Tango and Tito settled into their chairs, Tango resting his elbows on the red Formica.

Tito dropped a manilla envelope between us and leaned back, arms crossed, dark eyes focused. “The car that ran down Natalie belongs to her boss, Caleb Griffin. Guy’s in the hospital. His brother found him beaten to a pulp in his house. Broken arm, multiple facial fractures.”

With one long finger, Tito pushed the envelope my way. Tango shifted in his seat. Cleared his throat.

“What is this?

“Open it.”

The unsealed envelope looked safe enough, but the way my friends leaned closer, like shields, I knew my life was about to take a twisted turn.

I emptied the contents on the table. Photos. Gritty security camera footage. Some I recognized as the bank parking lot. Some were taken outside of Natalie’s condo. All of them were of the same figure wearing dark clothes. Pale skin. Blond hair.

Not—thank fucking God—Victoria.

Tito then passed me Natalie’s phone. “Fuckin’ idiot thinks burner apps are untraceable.” He pulled out his own cell and showed me an Instagram feed. @HOTraversFitness. “This guy is dumber than a bag of rocks.”

Pics of Natalie littered his feed. In the gym, in the car. Various outdoor locations. Every single one of them recently posted, though it was obvious they were old photos by the cut of Natalie’s hair.

The most recent post was uploaded two hours earlier and was of Natalie sleeping, half of one breast exposed, the light hitting her just right in a warm, erotic glow. It read:To watch her sleep is the sweetest torture.

Then the hashtags. #gettingmygirl #todaystheday #lovehurts #shesmine

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