I smile. Oliver crosses his arms and shoots a funny look at me. “What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, smirking. “I never imagined I’d be putting so much effort into planning someone else’s proposal.”
“Would you put this much effort into your own proposal?”
He considers my question for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess it would depend on what she wanted.”
I raise an eyebrow. He’s never struck me as the kind of guy who would settle down or think about marriage. All the girls I’ve seen him date have only lasted a few weeks, maybe a month or two at the longest. “Is there a she?” I wonder.
“Not yet,” he says with a shrug. “What about you? Are you planning on popping the question to someone someday, Tina-style?”
I shake my head, laughing. “No way. I’m all for Tina’s plan, but I couldn’t do it. I guess I’m a little more old-fashioned when it comes to that.”
“I see. So you would want to be the one surprised with all the fancy things? Flash mob, airplane, marching band, and fireworks?”
“God, no. If I ever get married, I hope the proposal is the furthest thing from a spectacle as possible. I would want it to be just me and him, no one else around. Nothing fancy. I don’t even care if he gets down on one knee. Just quietly slip the ring onto my finger and ask me.”
“What about the wedding?” he asks. “I bet Tina wants to go all out there, too.”
“Of course she does. Even if I could afford to have a huge wedding, I don’t think I would do it. If I’m going to spend a lot of money on getting married, I would rather?—”
“Go somewhere great for the honeymoon,” he says, interrupting me. It also happens to be exactly what I was going to say.
“Yeah. That,” I say with a laugh. “Somewhere like Fiji or Bora Bora.”
“It seems ironic that an event planner wouldn’t want a big event like that for herself,” he says.
I shrug. “Is that weird? I don’t know. I love planning big things for other people, but I guess I like it a little simpler for myself.”
“It’s not that weird,” he says. “Kind of like a gourmet chef getting home from work after cooking fancy meals all day and ordering a pizza for himself.”
“You can never go wrong with pizza,” I agree.
“Hmm. Maybe I’ll get some for dinner tonight.”
“We still need to get our story straight,” I say, getting back on subject.
“I thought we already figured it out. How much more of a story do we need?”
“What do we talk about? What do we do together—other than the obvious? And are we serious or just keeping it casual?”
He twists his lips, thinking about his answers. Then he says, “We talk about what kind of pizza toppings we like. When we’re not having sex, we eat pizza together. And we’re pretty serious about casual pizza nights.”
I let out a sigh that comes out as more of a groan. “I’m being serious, Oliver Edison.”
“Whoa. No one ever says my full name. I feel like I’m in trouble.”
“Oliver Edison,” I repeat in a vaguely threatening tone.
“Okay, fine,” he says. “But I don’t know why we need to plan all of this out. Why can’t we just wing it? If this relationship is new—which it is—then wouldn’t it be more realistic if we don’t have it all figured out yet?”
I think about that for a moment. “You might have a point.”
“I guess there’s only one thing left to do, then,” he says.
“I swear, if you say pizza one more time?—”
Before I can finish my sentence or even process what’s happening, he leans closer and touches his lips to mine. I’m caught off guard, but my mouth instinctively moves with his. It takes me a second to realize that he’s kissing me, and I’m kissing him back. When I don’t immediately push him away, he takes it as permission to move in a little closer. His body touches mine and his hands close around my waist.
