Page 14

Dane

I’ve been standing in the damn rain for almost two hours, and I’m freezing my balls off.

My phone battery’s circling the drain. And the text I need? Nowhere to be seen.

I start to wonder if this is the stupidest idea I've ever had.

But then I think of the last month, since we got back together. A quiet month. Peaceful. No drama. No tension. Just… us. The little things—takeout and game nights. Her head on my chest while we watch reruns. Her coffee mug next to mine in the morning. Messy hair. Soft laughter.

Home .

And I know this is anything but stupid.

My shoes squelch with every nervous shift. The designer suit I'm wearing—the one my mother would definitely not approve of me ruining—is completely soaked through. But I can't leave. Not until—

My phone buzzes.

Dorian: T his is simultaneously the most ridiculous and sexiest thing I've ever been part of. I LOVE IT. Also, you owe me. I’ve been here for hours, chatting and feeding her coffee like I’m her ESA.

Me : Emotional Support Animal?

Dorian : Emotional Support Amigo.

Me: You are.

Dorian: I know. But do you know how many cups of coffee I've drank? My teeth are vibrating.

Me: Is she...?

Dorian: FINALLY heading to the bathroom. I may have spiked her last coffee with extra espresso shots. You're welcome. Take the service elevator. It's faster.

Me: You're a genius.

Dorian: I know that too. Now hurry up, Romeo. I'm buzzing you in. GO.

I sprint through the lobby of Halcyon Interiors, ignoring the startled looks from the cleaning staff. Water drips everywhere, but I couldn't care less.

The service elevator feels like it's moving through molasses.

The doors finally open and Dorian’s there to guide me. “That way,” he points. “She just went in. Hurry! Also, fix your hair. It looks tragic in this weather. Just FYI.”

“Not helping.”

“I've been caffeinated against my will for hours. I get to be snarky.”

The bathroom door looms ahead. My heart's pounding like I'm about to take a game-winning shot. Except this is bigger. Way bigger. This is my whole future behind that door.

I take a breath and push it open.

"Occupied!" Ivy's voice echoes off the tiles.

"Actually," I say, "I was hoping you had room for one more."

Silence.

"Dane?"

"In the very wet flesh."

"Why are you—" She stops. "Oh my god. Are you stalking me in bathrooms now?"

"Technically, this is only the second time. I don't think it qualifies as stalking yet."

"Yet?"

I move closer to her stall, water dripping everywhere. "Remember what you said that first day? About how bathrooms are where people go to escape?"

"I was a bit drunk and crying."

"You were beautiful and honest."

"I was hiding."

"And I found you anyway." I rest my forehead against the stall door. "Just like I'll always find you."

"That's either really romantic or really creepy."

"I'm going for romantic." I fish the ring box from my pocket. "Although proposing through a bathroom stall probably leans toward creepy."

The sharp intake of breath from inside the stall makes my heart skip.

"Dane Alexander Whitmore, if you're about to—"

"See, the thing is," I continue, "I've been trying to plan the perfect proposal for weeks. Fancy restaurants, sunset beaches, all that traditional stuff. But none of it felt right."

"Because normal people don't propose in bathrooms?"

"Because normal people don't fall in love in bathrooms." I drop to one knee, wincing as water soaks through my pants. "But we did. Well, I did. The moment I heard your laugh through the door."

"You're insane."

"Probably." I kneel and slide my hand—ring box and all—under the stall door.

There's a pause. Then her fingers brush mine as she takes it—

"But I'm hoping you're just insane enough to say yes anyway."

"Dane." Her voice cracks. "You're kneeling in a puddle."

"I am. It's very uncomfortable."

"Your suit is ruined."

"Worth it."

"Dorian knew, didn't he?"

"He may have helped. Though I think he's now legally classified as 90% caffeine."

I hear movement in the stall, but the door stays closed. "Have you opened the box?" I ask.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because—" She takes a shaky breath. "Because once I do, this becomes real."

"It's already real." I press my palm against the door. "It's been real since that first day. Since you decided I was probably a troll."

A wet laugh. "You turned out to be devastatingly handsome instead. Very inconsiderate of you."

"I apologize for my face."

"No, you don't."

"No, I don't." I smile, even though she can't see it. "Open the box, Ivy."

More silence. Then a small click.

"Oh." Just that one sound, but it carries volumes.

"The diamond's from my grandmother's ring," I explain. "But I had it reset. See the little snowflakes around the band? They're—"

"Hockey-inspired." Her voice is thick.

"I'm incredibly on-brand."

She laughs, but it sounds watery. "You really want to do this? Here?"

"Here. Anywhere. Everywhere." My own voice isn't exactly steady. "I want morning coffee fights and late-night design consultations. I want to watch you fall asleep during my games. I want—"

The stall door flies open.

She's crying. Laughing. Both. The ring box is clutched in one hand, and she's looking at me like I'm everything she's ever wanted.

"You're soaking wet," she says.

"Astute observation."

"Your mother is going to hate this story."

"Probably."

"Sarah's going to kill us both when she gets back."

"Definitely."

She takes a step closer. "This is the most ridiculous proposal in the history of proposals."

"Is that a no?"

"It's a 'you haven't actually asked me yet, you silly man.'"

"Technically, I was getting to that part when someone interrupted me by opening the door."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She steps back into the stall. "Please, continue with your bathroom proposal."

"You're mocking me."

"Only a little." But her voice trembles. "Ask me properly, Dane."

I clear my throat. "Ivy Marie Collins—"

"How do you know my middle name?"

"Dorian."

"That traitor."

"Can I continue, or would you like to critique my information-gathering methods?"

She makes a zipping motion across her lips, but her eyes are dancing.

"Ivy Marie Collins," I start again, "I love that you cry at home renovation shows but pretend you don't. I love that you can't cook to save your life but still critique cooking competitions like you're Gordon Ramsay. I love—"

"Are you proposing or roasting me?"

"Both. It's called multitasking." I take the ring box from her shaking hands. "I love that you're the most brilliant, stubborn, impossible woman I've ever met. That you see through my bullshit but love me anyway. That you—"

"Yes."

"I haven't asked yet!"

"Sorry." She's fully crying now, but smiling so wide it must hurt. "Continue."

"I had a whole speech prepared. You're really bad at letting people propose to you."

"You're really bad at actually asking the question."

"Ivy Marie Collins, will you—"

"Yes."

"—make me the happiest—"

"Yes!"

"—man in the world—"

"Oh my god, YES!"

"—by marrying... wait, did you say yes?"

She launches herself at me, and we both go down in a tangle of wet clothes and laughter. The bathroom floor is hard and cold and probably unsanitary, but I couldn't care less because she's kissing me like she's trying to tell me everything she can't say.

When she finally pulls back, her eyes are bright with tears and mischief. "You know what this means, right?"

"That you're going to be Mrs. Bathroom Troll?"

She smacks my chest. "It means we have to tell Sarah we got engaged in a bathroom after meeting in a bathroom while hiding our fake relationship that started after we hooked up in a bathroom."

"When you say it like that, we sound like we have a weird bathroom fetish."

"We kind of do." She holds up her hand, admiring the ring. "Though this is definitely an upgrade from crying over my ex."

"Speaking of upgrades..." I pull her closer, not caring that I'm soaking her clothes. "Want to make out in a bathroom stall again? For old times' sake?"

"Absolutely not." But she's already reaching for my tie. "We're getting off this floor first. I have standards."

"Since when?"

"Since—" Her retort is cut off by pounding on the door.

"Is everyone alive in there?" Dorian's voice carries through. "Because if you're not, I need to know how to explain multiple dead bodies in the women's bathroom to HR."

Ivy calls back, "We're fine!"

"Did he ask?"

"Yes!"

"Did you say yes?"

"Yes!"

"Did you cry?"

"None of your business!"

"That's a yes." I can hear the smile in his voice. "Also, there's a cleaning lady out here who thinks I'm running some kind of bathroom-based crime ring. Should I let her in?"

Ivy scrambles up, pulling me with her. "Give us a minute!"

"A minute for what?" Dorian asks suggestively. "Actually, don't answer that. I've enabled enough bathroom activities for one day."

I catch Ivy's reflection in the mirror—her makeup slightly smudged, clothes damp from hugging me, ring catching the fluorescent light. She's never looked more beautiful.

I grab Ivy's hand. "Ready to face the world, future Mrs. Collins-Whitmore?"

"Ready to face anything." She squeezes my fingers. "As long as it's with you."

We open the bathroom door—

And the office erupts.

Applause, whistles, someone shouting “She said yes!” like it’s a sports win. Dorian stands front and center, holding a bottle of Dom Pérignon and wearing what appears to be a party hat, positively glowing.

"Finally, darlings!" he yells, tossing confetti. "The bathroom queen and her soaking wet king. Now, who wants to help me write the most epic engagement announcement ever?"

He winks.

"I’m thinking… Love at first flush. "