Chapter 8 Sloane #3
"What was that about?" I ask as we step into the cold night air, his arm warm around my waist.
"Mother being Mother," he replies cryptically, guiding me toward his waiting SUV. "My place or yours?"
The easy question, asked almost nightly now, sends warmth spreading through me despite the winter chill. "Yours," I decide. "The fireplace and the ridiculously large bathtub made quite the impression last time."
His smile is slow and full of promise. "I seem to recall you being impressed with other features as well."
"Cocky," I admonish, though heat rises to my cheeks at the memories his words evoke.
"Accurate," he corrects, opening the passenger door for me with old-world courtesy that somehow never feels patronizing from him.
The drive to his cabin is quiet, a comfortable silence broken only by soft holiday music from the radio and the occasional comment about the gala's success. His hand rests on my thigh, a casual touch that still sends electricity through me.
When we arrive, the cabin is warm and welcoming, the fire already lit, Marcus's doing, no doubt, anticipating our return.
"Remind me to send Marcus an extra thank-you," I say, slipping off my heels with a sigh of relief. "He thinks of everything."
"He's thorough," Atticus agrees, removing his bow tie and unfastening his top button with practiced ease. "Though anticipating my needs is considerably easier than keeping up with my mother's constant schedule changes."
I laugh, imagining Marcus's challenge in coordinating Vivienne's whirlwind visit. "Speaking of your mother, I caught her deep in conversation with Levi and Mindy earlier. Should I be concerned?"
"Probably," he admits, moving to the small bar to pour us each a nightcap. "She's taken a surprising interest in Hope Peak's development plans. Something about 'untapped potential' and 'authentic character.'"
"God help us," I mutter, accepting the crystal tumbler he offers. "Hope Peak with Vivienne Morgan's influence could become the next Aspen."
"Would that be so terrible?" he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.
I consider the question, sinking onto the plush sofa before the fire.
"Not terrible, exactly. But part of what makes Hope Peak special is its resistance to becoming too polished, too commercial.
" I take a sip of the amber liquid, letting it warm me from the inside.
"There's authenticity here that money can't buy and shouldn't change. "
He sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. "Like you."
The simple observation catches me off guard. "Me?"
"Authentic. Genuine. Resistant to corporate polishing." His smile is soft in the firelight. "It's what drew me to you from the beginning, you know. Even before I recognized it as attraction."
"And here I thought it was my exceptional coffee-making skills," I tease, deflecting slightly from the intensity of his gaze.
"Those didn't hurt," he admits. "But it was more than that. You've always seen me, Sloane. Not the CEO, not the Morgan heir, not the corporate shark. Just... me."
The vulnerability in his voice touches something deep inside me.
I set my glass aside, turning to face him fully.
"Because that's who I fell for. Just you, Atticus.
The man who stress-eats cheesecake before board presentations and secretly loves trashy action movies and remembers how everyone takes their coffee even when he's juggling multi-million dollar deals. "
His hand finds my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with gentle reverence. "When did you know? That this, us, was something real?"
"I think I've always known," I admit, leaning into his touch. "I just wasn't ready to admit it, even to myself. You were my best friend, my constant, the person I could always count on. Risking that for something more seemed... terrifying."
"And now?" His eyes search mine, gray darkening to slate in the dim light.
"Now I can't imagine not having this." I turn my face to press a kiss to his palm. "Not having you, like this."
Something shifts in his expression, decision crystallizing into action. He sets his own glass aside and takes both my hands in his.
"Sloane," he begins, voice unusually solemn. "There's something I need to say."
My pulse quickens, both anticipation and a flicker of anxiety rising within me. "Okay."
"These past weeks have been the happiest of my life," he says, his thumbs tracing circles on my wrists.
"Not because of the Winter Division's success or the board's approval, but because of you.
Because for the first time, I've experienced what it means to truly connect with someone, to share not just my thoughts but my heart. "
Emotion wells up, threatening to overflow. "Atticus..."
"Let me finish," he requests gently. "I've been thinking about what happens after the holidays. About New York and Hope Peak and the miles between them."
Here it comes, I think. The practical discussion about long-distance relationships, about making it work despite the challenges. I steel myself, determined to be equally practical, to focus on solutions rather than fears.
What I don't expect is for Atticus Morgan, the most controlled, deliberate man I've ever known, to slide from the sofa to one knee before me.
"The solution isn't long-distance calls and weekend visits," he says, reaching into his tuxedo pocket. "It's this."
He opens a small velvet box, revealing a stunning ring, an emerald surrounded by diamonds, elegant and unique. My breath catches, heart pounding so loudly I'm sure he must hear it.
"Marry me, Sloane," he says simply. "Be my partner in everything, not just Winter Divisions and community integrations, but in life. In all of it."
I stare at the ring, then at him, shock rendering me momentarily speechless. "Atticus... we've only been together for three weeks."
"And best friends for three years before that," he points out. "I know this seems fast by conventional standards. But when have we ever been conventional?"
A surprised laugh escapes me, tension breaking slightly. "Never."
"Exactly." His expression remains earnest, vulnerable in a way I've only seen in our most private moments. "I don't need more time to know what I want, Sloane. Who I want. It's you. It's always been you."
"But New York," I manage, clinging to practicality even as my heart threatens to burst. "Your life is there."
"My work is there," he corrects. "And with technology and regular travel, I can maintain that while building a life here, with you. If that's what you want."
The idea, Atticus restructuring his entire life to accommodate mine, to remain in Hope Peak, is so unexpected that I can hardly process it.
"You'd do that?" I whisper. "Stay here?"
"I'd do anything for you," he says with simple conviction. "But this isn't a sacrifice, Sloane. These weeks in Hope Peak have shown me what I've been missing, community, connection, a life beyond boardrooms and bottom lines. Being with you, here, feels right in a way nothing in New York ever has."
Tears blur my vision as the full weight of his words sinks in. "You're serious about this."
"Completely." He takes my hand, his touch steadying me. "I love you, Sloane Parker. I think I have for years, even before I recognized it. And if you need time to think about this, I understand. But I needed you to know where I stand. What I want."
The declaration, so straightforward, so Atticus, breaks the last of my hesitation. "Yes," I say, the word emerging as both a laugh and a sob.
His eyes widen. "Yes?"
"Yes, I'll marry you." I slide from the sofa to kneel before him, our faces level now. "I love you too, Atticus. So much it terrifies me sometimes."
Relief and joy transform his features as he takes the ring from its velvet nest. "May I?"
I extend my trembling left hand, watching as he slides the ring onto my finger, a perfect fit, because of course Atticus Morgan would ensure every detail was flawless.
"It's beautiful," I whisper, admiring how the emerald catches the firelight.
"It reminded me of your eyes," he admits. "And of that first emerald dress."
"Sentimental," I tease gently, even as tears threaten again. "Who would have guessed?"
"Only with you," he assures me, framing my face with his hands. "Always only with you."
Then his lips find mine in a kiss that tastes of whiskey and promises and a future I hadn't dared imagine until this moment. I melt into him, my arms winding around his neck as the kiss deepens, happiness bubbling through me like the champagne we've been drinking all night.
When we finally break apart, both breathing harder, I find myself laughing, a sound of pure joy that seems to bubble up from some inexhaustible well inside me.
"What's so funny?" Atticus asks, smile matching mine.
"Us," I say, resting my forehead against his. "The infamous CEO proposing on one knee in a rented cabin. My father is going to have a field day with this."
"Speaking of your father," Atticus begins, looking suddenly sheepish. "I may have called him last week to ask for his blessing."
My eyes widen. "You didn't."
"I did." He looks both pleased with himself and slightly embarrassed. "He said, and I quote, 'About damn time you figured it out, Morgan. I've been watching you look at my daughter like she hung the moon for years.'"
Fresh laughter bubbles up. "That sounds exactly like him."
"He also threatened bodily harm if I ever hurt you, but I thought that was implicit in the father-of-the-bride role."
"Definitely." I cup his face, overwhelmed by the love shining in his eyes. "You really planned this."
"Strategic thinking is my specialty," he reminds me, brushing his lips against mine.
"Though I had originally planned to wait until Christmas Day.
But tonight, seeing you in that dress, watching you charm everyone from the town council members to my mother's socialite friends. .. I couldn't wait anymore."
"Such an impatient CEO," I murmur against his lips. "Always demanding immediate results."
"Only for the most important acquisitions," he teases back.
"Did you just compare marrying me to a corporate takeover?"
"Merger," he corrects solemnly. "Definitely a merger of equals."
I can't help but laugh again, happiness spilling over in ways I can't contain. "Take me to bed, Atticus," I whisper, suddenly desperate to celebrate our engagement in the most intimate way possible. "I want to show my future husband exactly how much I love him."
His eyes darken at my words, desire mingling with tenderness as he rises, drawing me up with him. "Future wife," he says, testing the words. "I like the sound of that."
"Me too," I admit as he sweeps me into his arms, carrying me toward the bedroom with easy strength. "More than I ever thought I would."
The emerald on my finger catches the firelight as I wrap my arms around his neck, my heart so full it feels like it might burst.