Page 33 of A New Year's Toy
CHAPTER FOURTEEN AND LAST
Nola
Alistair’s hands wrap me like a warm blanket, his eyes delve deep into my heart, finding their home inside it.
It’s ten minutes to midnight, in the restaurant Alistair closed for the night for us. The soft white lights they had on while we ate a delicious three-course meal are muted now, their hue a magical shade of amber.
We’re swaying to Baby by Warpaint, a slow song that stands at complete odds with the celebrations going on beneath us. We have Paris at our feet. There’s nothing to conceal the outside world from us. We’re surrounded by walls of glass in every direction, front-row seats to the city I’ll forever remember fondly in my heart.
It’s beautiful. It’s wonderful. It’s undoubtedly one of the most epic sights I’ve ever witnessed, or ever will.
However—and I might be biased, though I don’t give a fuck—having Alistair with me beats all of it. All the wonders of the world couldn’t compare to the other half of me holding me tight.
“How did you like the meal?”
His hand travels the curve of my spine, slow and steady.
A prickling sensation ripples across my skin. “I liked it a lot.”
“I’m happy.” In an ever-tender gesture, Alistair presses his lips to my forehead. “I want you to enjoy life.”
He gulps, pinning me with a meaningful gaze. “Always.”
My love’s slight pause reminds me of the pensiveness he brushed off back in the room.
I don’t have much time to linger on it or ask him again.
The last note of the song plays. Silence ensues.
“Sweetheart,” Alistair’s call draws my focus back to him and nothing else.
I’m still glued to his mesmerizing eyes, though they’re not above me anymore.
They’re below me.
Alistair bends on one knee, popping open a square box.
With a diamond ring in it.
“Nola.”
During my twenty-one years on this planet, I have considered plenty of things.
I wished to study economics in Seattle, and I went for it. I wanted to save enough money to start my own business—and I did whatever it took to get there. Having my own version of Toy Shop was a dream that became possible with the charity offering grants, so I applied there.
Many, many life-altering decisions.
None of which revolved around the concept of marriage.
None, until King Charming—despite the proper definition, Alistair cannot be called anything other than a king—demolished his way into my heart.
I should wait for him to continue, but my quivering mouth has other plans for me, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
Alistair takes one of my hands, kissing the back of it. A slow smirk plays on his handsome face. “That usually comes after.”
“Shut up.” I swipe a tear off my cheek, realizing I didn’t mean what I said at all. “No, sorry. Don’t shut up. Speak.”
He nods, sobering quickly. He has on his impenetrable mask of brutal force, full of intention, not to be deterred.
