Preview of Not What We Pictured #2
With all due respect—not that I think you re due any—I was here first. Why can t you find a different bench? Like any one of the dozens of benches on that trail?
Well, if you must know—not that I think you must—none of those benches are where my sister shared her first kiss with her boyfriend.
This is the bench. Which is why I need to make sure this bench is perfect.
Because this is the bench where Oliver is going to propose tonight.
And yes, it has to be tonight. Why, you ask?
Didn t ask.
Because my sister s flying out first thing tomorrow morning to attend a friend s destination wedding in Italy.
Apparently Nebraska isn t romantic enough for a wedding, imagine that.
So if Oliver doesn t pop the question tonight then he won t get another chance until after my sister gets back in another three weeks, at which time she ll be starting her new job at the Nature Conservatory of Nebraska, which will probably make Oliver think he needs to wait a while longer so she can settle into her job, like another three months, and nobody wants to wait another three months.
Not Bobbi. Not me. Not anyone. Just like nobody wants to receive a marriage proposal sitting on a bench covered in bird poop.
She scrubbed at an especially large glob of white.
I don t know. You ask me, bird poop sets the tone for what marriage is really like.
Well, nobody did ask you, Mr. Wet-Blanket-Pondering-Bench-Hog.
McKenna paused in scrubbing and sighed. This man was bringing out the worst in her.
Normally she d never act this way with a stranger.
Especially over a bench. But it wasn t about a stranger and a bench, was it?
It was about her sister getting her perfect proposal so that she could start a new life with Oliver, and McKenna could start a new life somewhere exciting, like LA.
McKenna straightened her spine. Then tried straightening it some more. Ugh . This guy would have the nerve to be a smidgeon taller than her, wouldn t he? What do I have to do to make you leave?
He glanced at the river running next to them, then back at her, his hazel eyes crinkled in thought. I don t know. Might have to ponder the question a bit.
Oh my word, McKenna said with a groan. Why couldn t she have just stumbled across a dead body on a bench?
A short one. Would ve been so much easier to deal with than this not-so-terribly-looking-slightly-taller-than-her-wacko-poet.
Are you giving me a hard time on purpose?
Is this, like... I don t know, your awkward version of flirting?
Because I m not interested if that s what this is.
Says the woman who stole a kiss from my armpit.
I. Slipped. Stop trying to paint me as the crazy one here and git before I spray your eyeglasses again, she said, waving the Windex bottle in front of his nose.
Okay, that did sound a little crazy. She tried softening her tone.
You don t have to go away forever. Just for the next half hour or so. How about that bridge right over there?
She aimed her thumb toward the narrow wooden bridge that she was pretty sure had been roped off with a Caution sign earlier in the spring.
Issue must ve been fixed though. No rope now.
Doesn t that bridge look like a mighty fine place for a man to ponder as he crosses and disappears on the other side?
That bridge looks like it s one small breeze from crumbling into the river. I don t even know how it s still standing.
See? That bridge already has you pondering all sorts of notebook-worthy thoughts, doesn t it?
He stared for a beat, then shook his head. After lifting his hat enough to clutch the front of his hair, he tried smoothing down his cowlick as he muttered something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like bench bully, and tromped away.
If by bench bully you mean wonderful, albeit desperate woman who s simply trying to help her baby sister have a perfect proposal experience , then yes. That s exactly what I am. Thanks for the compliment.
She started to pull out another paper towel when she saw his notebook on the ground. Hey, Mr. Wet Blanket, McKenna called after him. You forgot your little ponder book. Wouldn t want you leaving behind all these amazing ideas you never wrote down.
She waited for him to turn around. He kept walking.
Sir! she yelled, because she still didn t know his name and somehow they were back to the game where she yelled Sir! and he didn t respond.
Lord, help me, I don t have time for this, she muttered as she hurried after him, losing her sandals twice in the process. She d just made it to the start of the bridge and spotted a rope dangling off to the side when she heard voices.
Familiar voices. Oliver and Bobbi s voices to be exact.
No, no, no. What were they doing here already? She still needed to sprinkle rose petals around the bench and hang up lanterns in the tree, then hide before they saw her.
Shoot shoot shoot. Oliver was going to kill her. She d promised everything would be perfect this time.
Side note—never make promises to your sister s boyfriend either.
In McKenna s defense, he wasn t supposed to arrive until a little before sunset. In his defense, they probably should have nailed down what counts as a little before sunset.
Ahh! She needed to hide before Oliver saw her meddling. Strike that, helping .
Either way, she couldn t let them see her. Bobbi would know right away something was up, and Oliver would probably take it as a sign this wasn t the right time to propose.
McKenna couldn t afford for him to wait again. Not with Bobbi leaving town tomorrow. Not with the clock ticking on a dream job in LA. An opportunity like that wasn t going to stay available forever. This perfect proposal needed to happen. Tonight. Right now.
But where to hide?