Page 71 of Wyatt
He made a face. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny velvet box. “Because of this.”
She reached for it, but he yanked it away. “Promise not to say anything?”
“Hello. CIA. I can keep a secret.”
“Wash your hands. This cost me three months’ pay.”
She grinned at him and washed her hands. Then she opened the box. “Oh, Tate.”
“Think she’ll like it?”
“White gold or platinum?”
“White gold. It’s called a halo center, it’s got like eighteen tiny stones around the outside, and that’s a one-point-two caret diamond—”
“It’s impressive.”
He grinned like a ten-year-old, and her heart wanted to burst for him.
“She’ll love it. When are you asking her?” She handed him back the ring box, and he looked at it one more time before he closed the box and stuck it back into his pocket.
“I don’t know yet. I thought…here, but…now I’m not—”
“Don’t be such a pansy. Take her out to the waterfall and propose. Tomorrow. At sunset.”
“Really, you think—”
“Yes. Because that thing is burning a hole in your pocket, and if you just keep carrying it around, she’s going to notice and then the surprise will be wrecked.” She walked over to him and took his handsome face in her hands. “No one deserves a happy ending more than you, Tater. Make it happen.” She kissed his cheek, painfully aware of the burning in her chest.
She was happy for him. But…
But wow, she missed York. And they barely knew each other.
Tate drew her close in a hug. “You’re going to bounce back, kiddo.” He let her go. “But you stop baking. You’re getting squishy around the hips.”
She hit his chest. He grinned as he stepped past her and swiped another cupcake on his way upstairs.
Maybe she should go to Seattle. It seemed like a good idea. She couldn’t keep hiding forever. And really, Tate was right. She might totally be overreacting to the threat of Damien Gustov. After all, he was all the way over in Russia.
She was frosting the last of her cupcakes when her cell phone buzzed on the counter. Please let it be Wyatt, except she didn’t recognize the number.
Wiping her hands, she grabbed it. “Hello?”
A breath, then. “Oh. Wow. I was worried.”
Not Wyatt. The voice was low, deep, soft. Powerful. Accented. And it hit her entire body like a wave of heat washing over her, settling into her core. “York?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry. I guess we’ve never talked on the phone, but…hey.” A deep sigh came over the phone, and for some reason she imagined him in some dark corridor or on a train or even in his safe house, dressed in a pair of black jeans, a black shirt, his dark blond hair rucked up thanks to the stress that layered his voice.
“Hey,” she said. “You okay?”
Another sigh.
“York. What’s going on?”
“I think Gustov is on his way to you.”
She reached out and flicked off the lights to the house. Silly, and just a gut reaction, but…