Page 46 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Griffon

Eight Months Later…

W e’ve officially moved the last box into place for the newest tenants of our latest project, and just like that—the carriage house renovation isn’t just an idea, it’s four homes.

What used to be a dusty old shell of a building is now four townhomes: two carved into the bones of the original structure, and two brand-new builds flanking either end.

It’s cozy but modern, with wide-plank floors, high ceilings, and just enough quirks left behind to give it heart.

Eden, Aunt Isobel’s best friend from way back, the woman who’s been in Izzy’s life since birth, claimed one of the inside units like it was always meant for her.

She’s now back to being a steady heartbeat behind Beans dove in headfirst into the land. The yurt happened then. Two of them, side by side. Spent much of this past summer there.

Jake was right. We needed hands. It’s unbelievable how fast those plants take off when they do.

Hart, Boone, and Grimes—who officially took Lo’s last name when they got married, so now it’s Brooks—Iz’s parents and grandparents, and Maggie and her folks, who spent a lot of time there, too, more out of concern for their girl.

It’s a lot of work, but damn if it wasn’t worth it.

Learned some good stuff about preserving food.

Did some incredible things by giving a ton away. Ten out of ten recommended.

Iz’s merch shop idea wasn’t an idea for long.

Our little Valentine fishing trip, I took notes of my own, on my phone, and ordered every piece of equipment she would scoff at the price of and say it was impractical.

Something about if it didn’t work out, it would be a loss, and she was not going to have a loss on her conscience.

When the deliveries started coming in, I told her it wasn’t a loss if it was a donation. Iz told me that now it was added pressure. I informed her that pressure was a good thing and then showed her just how good, with my tongue.

The kids working there are awesome. They remind me of myself when I was their age.

They’re doing more than just Knights merch; they’re taking orders for schools in the surrounding areas.

Iz decided that they, as a group, had to make decisions about where the profits went.

She’s not all up their asses, and she doesn’t micromanage; she lets them do their thing, and they’re doing it.

We’re good, so good. Sticking hard to that we-just-go-with-what-feels-right.

I made the mistake of telling her the day before Lo and Kolby got married that I couldn’t wait to get her knocked up.

Twenty-seven. She doesn’t want kids until she’s twenty-seven and marriage is twenty-four or later. I was in the doghouse after reminding her of that whole feels-right thing, and how that felt right to me. I stand by it.

So, tonight, seems perfect. Late fall, that sweet spot where the air turns crisp enough for hoodies but not so cold you can’t still pretend it’s patio season.

The rooftop of Blue Valley Publishing is lit up with twinkling lights, the fire pit glowing low in the corner, the last golden rays of sunset stretching across the rolling hills.

We can hear the tinny call of a ref’s whistle and the distant echo of a high school marching band from the Friday night game at the field.

Kids shouting. Parents cheering. That familiar cadence of small-town life humming beneath us.

She’s sitting across from me on a thick blanket we dragged out just before dusk, her legs stretched out, a steaming mug of cider cupped in her hands.

Her hair’s braided loose over one shoulder, and she’s wearing my sweatshirt, sleeves bunched at her wrists.

I don’t even know if she realizes she’s been humming along with the trumpet line drifting up from the field, but she is.

We’re good. So good.

And right now? As I sit here on the rooftop, in the middle of this town we love, looking at the woman who turned my world upside down and rebuilt it better, I know I should be nervous. I know this is technically “early.” But the truth?

It feels right.

So I stand.

She looks up, one brow arched. “You cold?”

“Nope,” I say, reaching into the back pocket of my jeans. My fingers brush the box I’ve been carrying around for two weeks. “But I’m about to make a really bold call.”

She sets her mug down slowly. “Skinner …”

I drop to one knee, because I’m already in it. I’m all-in. Have been since she side-eyed me the first time. I just didn’t know how ready I was then.

“Isobel Ross,” I say, steady despite the hammering in my chest, “you are the only person, besides my grandparents, who has ever made me feel like I’m home.

Like I’m wanted. Like I matter. Not because of what I do, but because of who I am.

You push me. You ground me. You make me want to build something better, every day. ”

Her eyes are wide, shiny.

“I know you’re not twenty-four yet,” I go on, “but you and I are the forever type of couple. I want you in every version of my life. Married. Not married yet. Long engagement. Kids now. Kids later. Whatever you want, I want it with you. But if you’d maybe be open to a little sparkle on your hand … ” I open the box.

She stares. And then laughs. And then cries.

Iz’s ring isn’t flashy—it’s intentional .

Every detail has meaning, just like everything she does.

It’s a low-profile setting, because she works with her hands—digging in garden beds, hauling cases at the brewery, tapping away at her laptop in the corner booth of Beans & Books, dealing with ink and presses at BVP.

A tall, snag-prone rock? Not her style. Instead, it’s arose-cut diamond, antique-inspired, with that soft, almost misty shimmer that looks like moonlight trapped in glass.

Oval, not round, because she’s never liked following the curve everyone else is on.

The band isbrushed yellow gold, subtle and warm, like the early morning sun over Blue Valley fields. Etched on the inside, in small, uneven script—an artist engraved in my handwriting—are the words,“ You saw me first.”

No halo, no pavé, no fuss. Just a quiet kind of gorgeous. Like her.

And when the light catches it just right as she lifts her hand to tuck her braid behind her ear, I swear the thing glows—not because it’s fancy, but because it’s hers.

“You’re such an ass. Why do you have to be so perfect?” she whispers, voice catching as she nods.

I slip the ring on her finger. The marching band in the distance starts in on the school fight song as she pulls me into her arms and kisses me.

Feels right?

Hell yeah, because it is right.