Then

I used to wake up from bad dreams and bounce out of bed and smile and think about all the good things that could happen that day, a surefire recipe for chasing the darkness away. Now there is no darkness, no nightmares.

Now I wake up and roll into him.

Even in sleep, Nash’s arm curls protectively around me. We’re in London. I’ve never been before, but I would be content to stay here in bed with him all day. There’s something about being held, something about letting myself be held, about the way my head fits under his chin and the warmth of his body against mine.

There’s something about knowing that he is content to just hold me.

“Mornin’.” Nash’s chest rises and falls with a breath that tells me he’s awake but not opening his amber-and-mahogany eyes any time soon.

I lean my head back, my neon hair a veritable rainbow on his pillow. “Mornin’, darlin’,” I drawl in the lowest voice I can muster. I am pretty sure his brothers would agree: My impression is spot-on.

“Waffles or pancakes?” Nash asks me. “I’m cooking.”

Nash is an excellent cook. “Both,” I tell him.

“Correct answer.” Nash rolls over onto his side. “Hey, Lib?”

I close my own eyes, warm and snug, feeling the rise and fall of my own chest. “Yeah-huh?”

“I got you something.”

There’s something in Nash’s voice that makes me open my eyes. He sits up and reaches for the nightstand, and all I can think is that he’s perfect. This is perfect. We are.

I might not be, but we are.

I sit up, just as Nash holds out his something. I smile. “A Magic 8 Ball.” I think about Cartago—and everything since. “You are very lucky that isn’t another cowboy hat.”

I have it on good authority that I wear them well.

“I am.” There it is again—a low, almost heady tone in his voice. “Lucky.”

I look down at the Magic 8 Ball in my hands and slowly turn it over. The blue triangle clearly visible in the window bears four words.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

I look up at Nash.

“That question—it doesn’t have an expiration date.” He is, even now, so damn steady. “You don’t have to say a word, Libby Grambs. Today, tomorrow, five years from now—if and when you want to answer, all you have to do is give that ball a shake until whatever feels right to you comes up.” His hands find their way to mine.

I know every single callus on his fingers, on his palms. I know every scar.

“And if that answer is Ask Again Later or Very Doubtful or Yes, you just bring me that ball, knowing that everything is going to be just fine. We are.”

My mouth is dry. “Nash…”

He brings his lips to just almost touch mine, a silent reminder that I don’t have to say a word, that he has never and will never demand from me anything that I don’t want to give. I’ve spent my life tiptoeing around glass and walking through minefields, but Nash is steady. Nash is pale blue skies. Nash is grass and mud, wide-open spaces, worn leather.

Nash is mine.

“Pancakes,” he says, drawing my lips into a kiss. “Waffles.” And another. “London.” And another.

He kisses me until I believe him with every fiber of my being: Whatever my answer, everything is going to be fine.

Whatever my answer, we are.

And that’s why I’m ready. That’s why I keep kissing him and shake the Magic 8 Ball. That’s why I pull back and keep shaking it, until the answer I want pops up.

One word. Just one. YES.