Page 61 of Beg For Me (Morally Gray #3)

Scrubbing her hands over her face, she sighs. “Nothing about my mother can surprise me anymore. And please, if you know she was once involved in the Mafia, don’t tell me. I’d already guessed as much, but as long as she isn’t introducing Harlow to any of her former friends, I’m staying out of it.”

“She’s not.”

Sophia drops her hands and stares at me. “Are you having her watched?”

When I respond, I keep my voice low and even. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

She sits in a chair at the island, slowly sinking into it while holding my gaze. “Because she’s with Harlow?”

“Because my job is to protect what’s mine.”

She glances out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the view of Los Angeles spread out like glittering jewels, the Pacific shimmering in the distance.

The top floor of this building has a spectacular view.

Actually, all the floors have a spectacular view, which the homeowner’s association repeatedly reminded me when they negotiated the sale price.

When she looks back at me, her eyes are soft. “We haven’t talked about Nick in a while.”

I nod, waiting to hear what comes next.

“Is he alive?”

“Do you want him to be?”

“Carter, that’s not funny.”

I gaze at her for a beat so she knows I’m not joking, then incline my head.

I can’t tell if her small exhale is relief or disappointment, but I need to. “Talk to me.”

“I keep waiting for Harlow to ask about him, but she’s not ready to discuss him yet.”

The police have officially listed him as missing, but considering we know exactly where he is, that’s not technically true. There was a brief investigation following his disappearance and a lot of news coverage, but as of now, his case is in limbo.

If or when Harlow says she wants to see him, we can bring him back or arrange a meeting. Until then, that SOB can stay right where he is, hiding out in Dubai.

It’s for the best, as I’m not exactly sure I won’t detach his head from his body if I run into him again.

Giving Sophia space to think, I get the milk out of the fridge, a spoon from a drawer, and wait until the coffee finishes brewing. Then I pour her a cup and set it in front of her.

She takes it with a murmured word of thanks and sips thoughtfully. When she glances up at me over the rim of the mug and smiles, I breathe a little easier.

Then my heartbeat kicks up a notch, though I try not to show it.

From another drawer, I remove a small black velvet box, turning to set it silently on the island in front of her.

She freezes and stares at it with wide eyes.

I sit next to her and wait.

She moistens her lips, swallowing, then looks at me. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I told you when we first met that you were going to be my wife.”

She glances back at the little black box. “I thought you were being flippant.”

“I wasn’t.”

She takes a slow sip of coffee, her hands clutching the mug, which does nothing to hide their shaking.

“I asked permission.”

She starts, making a face of disbelief. “You asked my mother if you could marry me?”

“No,” I say gently. “I asked Harlow.”

Her wide eyes slowly fill with moisture. Her voice is small and strangled. “Really? Did she say yes?”

“She said she was glad you divorced her father before he left so there wouldn’t be anything stopping us.”

Her throat working, she looks away out to the view of the city again. She sniffles and clears her throat.

“Baby,” I say softly. “Look at me.”

When our eyes meet, it feels like a puzzle piece snapping into place. The final piece of my heart that’s always been missing.

“You’re going to be my wife. Maybe not this month, maybe not next year, maybe after Harlow graduates from college.

Then when is negotiable. The if isn’t. You’re going to be mine legally in addition to every other way.

We own a business together. We’ve been through a lot of therapy together.

We found Brittany a job, an apartment, and the couple who’s going to adopt her baby.

You’ve made me a better man, I love you more than anything in this world or out of it, and you will be my wife.

Blink once for yes, but I’m not taking no for an answer. ”

Her face crumples. “You’re getting more and more like your brother every day.”

“Which one?”

“The crazy one.”

That makes me smile. “Like I said, which one?”

Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. Then she drops her head, sets the mug down, covers her face with her hands, and bursts into tears.

I move to her, my heart expanding until it hurts, and bend down wrap my arms around her from behind. Squeezing her to my chest, I whisper into her ear, “At least look at the ring before you start crying. It’s probably hideous. I have terrible taste in jewelry.”

That makes her cry harder, but I know they’re not tears of sadness. They’re tears of happiness, which is a whole different thing.

When I take her mouth in a passionate kiss, she doesn’t have to say the word. Her lips and arms and muffled cries of happiness say yes in a way that’s undeniable.

Which is lucky for me, because although I said she didn’t have a choice, I was fully prepared to beg.