Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I let out an embarrassed laugh. “Sort of.”
He kisses me again, smiling against my mouth. “I thought about that grand gesture, too, but figured I’d better court you first.”
I pull back. “Court me? Did you steal that from Kennedy’s vocabulary—Wait. You thought about it? You thought about giving me a ring?” I nearly shriek.
He gives a little shrug. “It crossed my mind. After I realized I loved you.”
My knees buckle, but he catches me.
“That was embarrassing for you,” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “Give me a break. The guy I love surprised me with red roses, plane tickets, and vague chatter about marriage.”
His eyes go bright. “The guy you love, huh?”
I tap the corner of the envelope to his chest. “Turns out I’m very impractical when it comes to you. You had me falling head over heels in love with you in just a few weeks.”
“Just imagine what I can do in a few months,” he says, wrapping both arms around me and lifting me off the ground.
I laugh and lower my mouth to his. “I can’t wait to find out.”
Epilogue
LARA
A Year-ish Later
“I’m late, I’m late. I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say, dropping into the chair across from Ian. “Tell me you ordered me a drink.”
As though on cue, a server appears with two glasses of champagne.
“Ooh, we’re fancy tonight,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes at the man who, after a year of dating, is still the best-looking thing I’ve ever seen.
“Yes, well, they were out of that terrible beer you loved so much at the dive bar near Quantico.”
“Yeaaaaah, guess that was a situational thing. Who knew beer could taste totally different when it doesn’t come after a long, grueling day of target practice?”
“God, I love it when you talk dirty to me,” he says, winking and clinking his glass to mine. “So. How was your day, Agent McKenzie?”
I beam, because two months into my new job, it still doesn’t get old.
“Didn’t get to cuff anyone, but there’s always tomorrow.” I smile into my glass.
He leans forward and lowers his voice. “You can cuff me tonight, if you want.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that,” I say with a mischievous grin. “How about you? Tell me about your day.”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Kennedy pretends not to notice Kate; she continues to torture him. Matt and Sabrina got in a fight, so they might be dead.”
“Same ol’.”
He smiles. “Yep.”
Except he’s only partially right about the same ol’.
Some things are the same. Ian’s still at the top of his game, still bringing in ridiculous amounts of money, plenty of which still goes to Ian’s charity, another decent chunk to replacing Dave’s TVs.
But some things are new, too. We managed to coax Dave out to New York for Thanksgiving last year. Ian looked so damn happy, I’m hoping Dave’s holiday visit was merely the first in what will be a long-standing tradition.
As for me, I graduated from Quantico a few months back and was offered a job almost immediately. And brace yourself, people, because happily ever after doesn’t get much happier than this . . .
The job’s as an agent in the white-collar division. In New York. Headquartered just three blocks from Ian’s apartment.
Well, now our apartment.
Told you. Happily ever after on steroids—my dream job and my dream guy.
Ian’s studying me with a thoughtful look, and I glance up from my menu. “What?”
“You’re smiling.”
“Usually a good thing,” I say, sipping my champagne.
He looks down, then back up. “You ever miss DC?”
“Nah. The pizza’s better here.”
“What about the men?”
“Toss-up.” I shrug, glancing back at my menu. “My dad is still in DC, and he’s pretty great.”
Ian smiles. “Yeah, he is. Speaking of your dad, we had a little chat this afternoon.”
My head snaps up. “You talked with my father? Without supervision? After the disastrous Christmas dinner discussion?” I’d never seen two men get so worked up over baseball versus hockey before. “What could you have possibly talked about?”
“You,” he says matter-of-factly.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Me.”
“Well, you and how he and I are going to have a lot more Christmases to settle that hockey argument,” Ian says casually. Too casually.
My heart starts to pound. “Is that so?”
“I hope so. See, Lara . . .” Ian gets up from his chair and slowly starts to bend to one knee next to the table. “I called him with a question about his only daughter. An important one.”
My eyes fill. “You did?”