Page 60

You don’t end up needing copious food and drink to lubricate the attendees, however; they get along great.

Noemi finds unexpected common ground with Kai’s oldest brother, Roman—neither of them are big talkers outside their immediate circle—and your parents, as ever, get on like a house on fire.

It turns out that Donald Reinhart has a hidden fascination for pickleball and pickleball stories, which pretty much guarantees that neither of your fathers is moving from the table for hours.

Mrs. Reinhart and your mom are both big home cooks, and almost immediately start swapping recipes.

They both love Guy Fieri and hate the Pioneer Woman.

August and Aquila are virtually impossible to tell apart at first, so you spend most of the meal silently, studiously trying to crack the code.

As soon as you figure out which one is which (Quill is wearing blue, and Auggie is in yellow), you spot it: they are mirror-image twins.

Quill has a dimple on the left side, and his brother’s in on the right cheek.

After that, you also assess the fact that Quill laughs with his mouth wide open, and August tends to cover his teeth with his hand.

Satisfied, you are able to move on with your meal.

At one point, you excuse yourself to use the restroom.

When you come back, Kai is standing in a corner of the room with your parents.

Everyone is smiling, which you take for a good sign, so you don’t think too much of it.

As soon as they see you, they rejoin the table, and your mom immediately starts talking your ear off about wanting to come spend a week at the guest villa now that the reno is done.

Kai gets talking about all the amazing food, museums, and places to visit in Miami, and, before you know it, they’ve made plans completely without you.

By the time everyone leaves the restaurant, your belly feels like it is going to explode, your heart is full, and the Reinhart contingent has already invited the whole Grayson clan to join them in Macon for either Thanksgiving or Christmas.

You and Kai haven’t had a stray moment together all night, but, when you put your folks into separate cars, he winks at you over the door of the SUV.

Victory! he mouths at you.

***

As soon as he gets back to Miami, there’s the homecoming parade.

The Magic City heralds the Cyclones like heroes returning from war.

In front of the Hard Rock, the mayor awards Coach Beausoleil the key to the city, and green-and-gold fireworks erupt in the balmy daytime air.

After, the whole team and coaching staff climb to the top of three double-decker tour buses that are open to the sunlight and slowly roll through the streets of Miami Gardens.

On the other side of immense plastic barriers, thousands of people are dressed in their Cyclones best, waving and cheering.

The guys throw beads and t-shirts to the fans, day-drinking in ball caps and sunglasses.

Coach Beausoleil holds the championship trophy up high like the figurehead of a ship, and Sandy draws gasps—and then raucous applause!

—from the crowd when he casually, drunkenly lobs the trophy from the back of one bus to the front of the other, which is slowly but steadily following it.

Like it’s a game ball, Jameson snatches it from the air without so much as disturbing the fat Cuban cigar between his lips.

The look on Dettweiler’s face is priceless.

From your TV back at home, you admire the cinematographic instincts of the news station cameraman who lingers lovingly on the kicker’s stultified puss.

Kai has too much to drink, gets too much sun, and stumbles home from the back of an Uber at five in the afternoon, where you drag him into a cold shower and put him to bed with ibuprofen and a tall glass of water. He sleeps until nine the next morning.

Then, and only then, do you two get your first chance to be alone for more than a few minutes in almost a week.

That night, Kai busts out his Chevelle—since the lessons in driving the Bronco have not yet commenced, and it’s still at his house in Macon, anyway—and says he’s taking you out.

With the top down, the Floridian night air in February is like a drug, cool and sweet-scented.

You wear sunglasses, but forego your usual hat, letting the wind whip your hair.

Kai is giving vintage Don Johnson, all Miami Vice chic in a tan linen suit and a clinging white silk tank top.

You are enjoying the views, of the palm-lined streets, the radiant high-rises, and of your cool, clean-shaven, gorgeous boyfriend, and not paying attention to where you are going.

Consequently, you’re surprised when he slows down in Bal Harbour and pulls the convertible into a small, private lot with beach access.

“We drove all this way to go to the beach?” you ask him blankly. “We have the beach at home.”

“Hush,” he says, killing the engine. “Just go with the flow. Leave your shoes.”

It’s cooler by the water, the wind more insistent when you step off the boardwalk onto the beach.

Your toes sink into the soft, white sugar sand.

It’s been years since you walked barefoot on the beach, but the memories come rolling back: the crashing waves, the scent of the salt, the powdery give beneath your feet.

It’s very different from the New England beaches you frequented as a kid.

But that’s not what you are paying attention to.

Your attention is drawn to a canopy thatched with palm fronds and draped in white gauze.

It’s covering a table set for two, a bottle of champagne iced in the middle.

In the surrounding sand, dozens of candles in hurricane glasses cast a warm, faint glow.

A romantic dinner , you think. That’s incredibly creative and sweet.

You wonder how he had time to set it up with everything going on lately.

“You know that Valentine’s Day is still two days away, right?” you say, mildly joking. “Are we celebrating early?”

“Nah,” he says. “Valentine’s Day is for unoriginal suckers.”

You don’t wholly disagree. You walk up the candlelit approach to the canopy, and lean over the table, examining the label on the bottle. Kai comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, butting his head against your back.

“It’s so good to be back home,” he murmurs.

In his arms, you melt. “It’s good to be back home,” you agree.

He pulls away, and you grab one of the chairs, intending to sit down. Maybe the waiters are running behind, as nobody has greeted you guys. Weird.

“Ster,” Kai says, behind you.

“Hmm?” Absently, you turn around.

And Kai is down on one knee.

Kaius. He’s on one knee in the sand, looking up at you. He’s reaching into his pocket, pulling out a small, black velvet jewelry box, and opening it up. There’s a ring inside, glinting in the candlelight.

“Oh my god,” you say, struck dumb.

“Sterling,” he says, his voice very low and serious, “will you marry me?”

You can actually feel your jaw drop.

“Oh my god,” you repeat. “The other night, at the restaurant… were you asking my parents for my hand in marriage?”

“If I say yes, are you going to turn me down?” he asks.

“That’s… so old-fashioned,” you sputter.

“No, it’s proper ,” he insists. “And I was asking for their blessing, not their permission. Are you going to answer the question, or am I staying down here all night?”

“Wait!” you cry, hand to your mouth.

Kai goes pale.

Quickly, you, too, sink to your knees. Both of them. You’re messing this up, but you didn’t get a chance to rehearse, dammit. You are supposed to practice these things!

“Your ring is at home,” you say quickly, “because I didn’t know I was doing this tonight, but it seems we were on the same page. Will you marry me, Kaius Reinhart?”

Kai looks pained. “Sterling, you can’t answer a question with a question.”

“You’re messing up my proposal!” you cry.

“Well, you hijacked mine before that. And since I actually asked first, you have to answer first.”

You frown. “Of course I’ll marry you, you absolute idiot.”

He huffs a deep breath. “Well, good,” he says. “Because, if not, that would have made my yes really awkward.”

You both laugh, and scramble to your feet. He sweeps you off your feet and kisses you soundly. Literally, your body is dragged against his, and your feet are in the air. He holds you like you weigh nothing, his big hands spanning your waist.

“I love you so much,” you murmur.

“I love you, too,” he replies. “UPS is going to need a bigger cart for the Edible Arrangement that’s going to come with my new job title upgrade.”

“Oh, god,” you groan, thinking of the card you sent him at the training facility so long ago.

Jokes set aside, you kiss and kiss.

“You’re going to be my husband,” Kai says, sounding dazed. “We’re going to get married.”

“I’ll be anything you want me to be,” you answer honestly. “I’ve been yours since the first time we met. Just took me a while to realize it.”

“I haven’t even put your ring on, yet,” he says. “I’m fumbling this whole experience.”

“Well, you’d better put me down and fix it.”

He sets you gently in the sand. The ring box sits on the table where he put it down a minute ago.

You get your first good look at your engagement ring.

It’s a thick platinum band set with a bezel-set emerald-cut diamond that is, to your untrained eye, absolutely flawless.

And massive, god. It’s simple, but incredibly gorgeous.

And, when he slides it onto the fourth finger of your left hand, it fits like it was made for you.

“You asked Maeve my ring size,” you realize, admiring the way that the fire in the diamond catches the candlelight in sparks of glinting white.

He laughs, delighted. “Of course I did,” he admits.