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Stella

Eight months later, November

Las Vegas, Nevada

The engagement ring on Willow Williams’s finger keeps catching the light in such a way that I’m pretty sure everyone is going to go blind by the time dinner is over.

“Dear God,” I murmur to Thomas, wincing when she throws her hand up again and the refraction hits me square in the face. “That thing’s a weapon of mass destruction.”

“It’s nearly as big as she is,” he whispers back. “How is she even able to lift her arm?”

I snicker. “She’s small but mighty, I suppose.”

Other than potential retinal damage, our anniversary dinner has been fantastic so far. Our friends and families have made the trek to Vegas to celebrate our first year of marriage in the place where it all started. Even a few drivers and their partners have joined us—including the newly engaged Dev Anderson and Willow Williams.

I say newly , but it’s been over a month, though you’d think it happened just yesterday with how excited they both are.

“Dev’s been insufferable ,” Thomas complained after the first race weekend back following their engagement. “We both know I’m obsessed with you, but that man? Sickeningly in love. I regret that we played a part in their romance.”

“Ah yes,” I mused. “Because me renting out the Manhattan Stella Margaux’s location free of charge to him so he could propose was your doing.”

Thomas lifted his chin, playfully indignant. “I’m the one who broached the topic with you, did I not? If I hadn’t told you how he wanted to propose, I wouldn’t have to listen to him wax poetic about how he can’t wait to marry her. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

He may think it was a mistake, but I don’t miss the fond glances he gives Dev and Willow across the table. My man’s a sap underneath it all, just how I like it.

“Hey, when are you going to propose to me?” I ask, nudging his knee with mine under the table. “I never got to have that part.”

“No, you just don’t remember that part.”

He grins and takes my hand, holding his fingers under mine so my own impressive diamond twinkles under the lights. Even though we’ve technically just been dating since our last wedding back in February, most days I swear we forget we agreed to being anything less than a married couple.

“Is that something you want?” he asks as he toys with my ring. “Because I can make it happen.” He dips his head so we’re eye to eye, and my heart picks up the pace. “Will you marry me for a third time, Estelle Margaux Wilhelmina Tyrrell Baldwin Maxwell-Brown?”

I pretend to consider it, pursing my lips before nodding. “Yes, I will. And you’re in luck—I know a chapel we can go to. Might as well get that whole pesky wedding thing out of the way.”

Thomas lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my ring. “Actually, I have a better idea.”

“Oh?” I arch an eyebrow. “What’s better than marrying me multiple times?”

“Getting your initials tattooed on my finger.”

I let out a surprised laugh and lean back. “Baby, I’m not sure that’ll even fit.”

“It will.”

He says it so confidently that it makes my smile drop away. He’s serious.

“ You want a tattoo ?” I press, punched by disbelief. “I know I’ve called you knockoff Harry Styles before, but I didn’t think you’d ever go that far with it.”

He shakes his head at my comment but blessedly ignores my quips. “I want a tattoo because I can’t wear my ring when I’m racing,” he explains. “And I want that reminder of you with me all the time.”

I sway a little in my seat, possibly from the wine we’ve been drinking, but—nope, I’m swooning. This is a swoon, full-on, in action.

“Oh,” I exhale, and even though I’ve known for ages that I’m in love with him, it still hits me with the force of a speeding train. “I like that.”

He brightens. “Yeah? You do?”

“Mm-hmm.” It’s all I can manage because my throat is getting tight. But I make myself say, “And I love you. So much. Like, an absolutely ridiculous amount that I might be embarrassed by if I wasn’t sure you felt the same and didn’t listen to you proclaim it about twenty-seven times a day.”

Thomas laughs at my rambling, then follows it up with a grin that reminds me why I fell for him in the first place. “Well, if you love me so much, why don’t you get a tattoo with me?”

“Matching tattoos?” I scoff. “You don’t think that’s…tacky?”

“Oh, it absolutely is.” He leans in, nose brushing the shell of my ear. “But isn’t that what Vegas is all about?”

He’s not wrong. I mean, we’ve already had a tacky Vegas wedding, so what’s one more thing?

“Besides,” Thomas continues. “You can’t wear your ring because your hands are in dough half the time. It only makes sense for you to get one too.”

“You think you’re sly, don’t you? You just don’t want to do it by yourself.”

“That may be part of it,” he concedes.

I eye him for a moment. I’ve never been all that interested in tattoos, but if there’s one person who could convince me to get one, it’s him. “All right, fuck it, I’m in.”

He doesn’t hesitate to press his lips to mine for a quick kiss in celebration. “God, I love you.”

“That’s the twenty-eighth time you’ve said that today.”

“And I mean it more every single time.”

“I can’t wait for twenty-nine, then.”

“That’ll come after my initials are on your finger.”

I lean in for another kiss. “I bet you a hundred bucks you won’t be able to last that long.”

“You’re right,” he murmurs against my lips. “I love you, Stella.”

I don’t get to say it back because he’s too busy kissing me again, but that’s all right. He knows.

Our love is one thing that’s not staying in Vegas.