Page 176 of Himbo Hitman
Elle’s hands fly up to cover her mouth, eyes wide, and at first, I do a rapid remembering to confirm that yes, yes, she definitely already knows this, so why the hell is she so shocked?
The answer comes from behind me a second later.
In a voice I know to my very soul.
“Ah … Perry’s what?”
I think I squeak as Margot’s mouth drops.
“Gotta go do that thing that I have to do,” Elle manages in a strangled voice before she ditches us all.
I lean into Margot’s face and hiss, “I haaaate you,” and then, because I’m paranoid the baby heard, I duck down to her belly again. “But not you. If you heard that, I don’t hate you. Uncy Perry loves you very, very much.”
Margot makes her escape, turning to me as she passes St. Clare and mouthing,I’m so sorry!
She ditches us faster than a pregnant lady should reasonably be able to move.
Only then do I realize we’re alone.
Alone.
No, no, no, this isn’t how it was supposed to happen. There’s supposed to be a crowd and staring and lots and lots of pressure.
“Perry?” St. Clare asks, still sounding a little shocked.
And this, I remind myself,is why plans fucking suck.
So instead of the music and confetti streamers andfuture Mr. St. Clare Nikovbanners—we’re workshopping that—it’s just him and me.
I drop onto one knee because that’s how they do it in the movies, and if I can’t give St. Clare all of the pizzazz, I can at least give him that.
I hold out my hand, and thankfully, his slips into mine.
“Hey.” I grin.
“Skip that part,” he says, still sounding like his lungs aren’t working. “What’s happening?”
“Technically, this is your fault,” I say. “It was supposed to be a lot more stressful than this.”
“Noted.”
Before I say more than I probably should, I remind myself that it’s not the most romantic thing to be making fake accusations during a proposal. “Ah, sorry. Scratch that. Start again at the part where I say your name.”
“Okay …”
“Reilly St. Clare, before I say anything else, I want to say that Idon’t remember much of what life was like before you, but I remember that I thought I was happy.”
He nods, a tiny, confused line pulling between his eyebrows.
“But I wasn’t. Or … maybe I was, but it wasn’thappyhappy. It wasn’t this kind of happy where I’ll be going about my day and then think of you and smile. Or where I’ll open a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and remember the time you got so drunk you tried pole dancing in your own nightclub. Or when you leave for work earlier than me and always spray a little bit of your cologne by my pillow so you’re the first thing I smell when I wake up.”
The confused line smooths, and I swear my steady boyfriend’s eyes get all shiny.
“I have this light in my chest that’s always there, and it’s completely thanks to you. And while we might have started out on a shitty accident, I don’t think it was an accident at all. We were meant to be. We were supposed to find each other. And now, here, I want to do this. I want to be each other’s person. I want to be the Nikov St. Clares—still workshopping—and I really fucking hope you want that too. Even without all our family here to pressure you into doing it.”
Then I crack open the ring box, and St. Clare goes from misty-eyed to full-blown laughing through his tears.
He picks up the gunshot-heart golden charm I had made and put onto a necklace for him. At first, he says nothing, just a whole long stretch of nothing where I sweat through my shirt and silently beg him tosay words, any words.
