Chapter 31 Annabelle
Annabelle
Another week, another photo turning up on the internet, somewhere in Maverick’s building without us knowing who took it.
I would say I’m getting used to this, but that would be a lie.
The comments beneath the photo aren’t mean, exactly. Not this time.
Invasive, sure.
Like everyone suddenly thinks they have a stake in my body and appearance. What I wear. How I don’t look like a WAG. I’m not “hot” enough. Whether or not my expression means I’m “glowing” or “miserable” or “hiding something.”
Tossing my phone onto the bed, I sink back with a sigh, one hand drifting to my stomach.
Still no bump yet. Nothing anyone else would notice but me, possibly Maverick.
But I feel it. The constant bloat. The tight waistbands I’ve given up on in favor of leggings at only four or so weeks.
My favorite jeans are somewhere in Washington, but even if they were here, they wouldn’t stand a chance.
Wouldn’t dare fit. I’ve been living in Callum’s T-shirts like they’re part of my DNA now, but I’m not complaining, they are so comfy.
“Ahh.”
I breathe in the quiet, enjoying it. Any second now Maverick will come busting through the door from his meeting and I’ll—
Three weeks.
I’ve been here almost three weeks.
Swimming in the rooftop pool. Taking walks around town in the evening after the sun has gone down, many times stopping for ice cream.
Long enough to memorize the way the elevator dings on the penthouse floor. Long enough to know what time the sun filters in through the bedroom curtains. Long enough to want to stay.
But all my stuff is still in Washington. My life is there—messy, incomplete, but it has been mine for all these years, and it’s probably time to get back and, well. Clean it up.
Get organized. Figure my shit out. Stop living out of this suitcase, even though Mav cleaned out a good portion of his giant closet for my meager belongings.
I don’t not want to be here. I’m just . .
. trying to be realistic. My landlord has complained about my mail piling up.
I have brides who want consultations and a wedding in six months to continue planning—not to mention next Fall Fest. If I’m no longer in Star Lake to plan it, wouldn’t now be the time to tell the rest of the volunteers? Ugh!
My mom’s called twice today alone. Everyone’s waiting for me to say I’m on my way home, anxious for more information but happy I am happy.
I should be on my way to Star Lake.
I should be.
But then there’s Maverick. Who makes me laugh at midnight and brings me decaf lattes and rubs my lower back without being asked. Who looks at me like this baby is the best thing that’s ever happened to him—like I’m the best thing.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because if I stay . . . I’m choosing a life I never planned for. If I go, I’m walking away from the only thing that’s felt right in a long time.
I rub my temple, heart suddenly too full for my chest. I don’t know what the right move is yet—but I do know I need to pack. Or at least pretend to. Maybe it’ll help me figure out what I’m really willing to leave behind.
One suitcase on the bed, a half-folded tennis skirt beside it, and zero actual progress. Mostly, I’ve been standing here, staring out the massive penthouse windows like they’ll show me the answers I don’t have yet.
Behind me, the penthouse door clicks open.
I don’t turn around.
“Annabelle?” His voice drifts into the room, low and warm, the kind of voice that can melt through even the most conflicted spirals.
“In here,” I call, still not moving.
A few seconds later, I feel him behind me. I sense more than hear him take in the suitcase, the open drawers. He doesn’t say anything at first, just wraps his arms around my waist from behind and rests his chin on my shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting organized.”
There’s a pause. “Washington?”
I nod again, unable to turn and look at him.
He’s quiet for a beat, then asks, “So you’re going home?”
“No,” I admit. “But I figured I should at least start preparing like I might.”
This wasn’t supposed to be forever, just a chance to see if we fit.
Maverick exhales against my shoulder, the warm puff of breath sending goose bumps skittering down my neck. Another pause. Then, casually, like he’s changing the subject, he says, “What if we just didn’t think about this tonight?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“I’m planning something.”
“Planning what?” I literally hate surprises so much.
He gives me a look, one that says “stop asking questions and let me romance you, woman.” “I need you to do something for me.”
My eyes narrow in suspicion. “Depends on what it is.”
He laughs at my stubbornness. “Put on something cute.”
“Why?”
His grin widens. “Because I’m taking you out. You’ve been in my T-shirts and holed up while I’m at the trainer and the gym—sexy as hell, by the way—but I need to see you in something that gives me a boner.”
I cross my arms. “Is this a ploy to get me into a dress?”
“Absolutely. Put on something you feel pretty in.”
I stare at him, torn between laughing and launching a pillow at his head. “Where are we going?”
His mouth twitches like he’s dying to spill. “It’s a surprise.”
“You know I hate surprises.”
He shrugs. “Can’t you just play along? Don’t be so stubborn.”
“Did it occur to you that I might not be so stubborn if you weren’t so bossy?” I snort, walking to the closet. “You realize I’m limited in the zipper department right now and I haven’t bought anything new since I’ve been here.”
Even though the city is full of boutiques and shopping, I haven’t felt the urge to splurge.
“I’ll help,” he offers, eyes lighting up like that was his goal all along. “Hell, I’ll zip it, unzip it, and zip it again if you need me to.”
I roll my eyes. “Pervert.”
He catches my sass, laughing, then leaves the room with a wink. “I’m going to change too. Half hour, no pressure. Except for the part where my heart might explode if you don’t knock me flat on my ass.”
I stand there for a second after the door shuts, smiling like a fool.
Then I ditch the half-packed suitcase and pull out the one dress I stuffed into my duffel “just in case.” Black.
I step into the bathroom, smooth the dress over my hips, and study my reflection with a critical eye. The fabric clings in all the right places—soft over my hips, snug at my waist, and dipping low enough at the neckline to be classified as dangerous if I bend too far forward.
I swipe on some mascara, a little lip tint, and then smooth my hands down the sides of my dress before tackling my hair. It’s a mess of waves from too many lazy buns and pillowcase naps, but I tame it into a sleek chignon at my nape, twisting and pinning until it’s polished and elegant.
One last look in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all.
“Let’s do this,” I say to my reflection. “Let’s knock that man on his ass.”
I tug the hem of the dress down a touch—nerves fluttering low in my belly—then step into a pair of heels I forgot I owned. My legs thank me and curse me simultaneously.
When I step out of the bedroom, Callum is already waiting near the entryway in a dark suit, no tie, and a sinful amount of smirk.
His eyes rake over me slowly. Appreciatively. “Babe, you are so smokin’ hot.” I laugh, nerves fizzing in my chest as he offers his arm like some kind of gentleman-thief hybrid who just pulled off a diamond heist in Milan. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I mutter, slipping my hand into the crook of his arm.
Downstairs, a sleek black car is waiting at the curb, engine idling. The driver opens the door with a polite nod, and Callum helps me in like this is a normal Thursday night and not whatever fever dream I’ve found myself living in.
The car smells like leather and something faintly citrusy, and I sink into the seat, careful not to wrinkle my dress.
“Do I get a hint yet?” I ask as the driver pulls away from the curb, Scottsdale glittering through the tinted windows.
“Nope.”
“Not even a clue?”
“Not even a breadcrumb,” he says, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Although if it makes you feel better, I’m ninety percent sure you’ll love it.”
“The other ten percent?”
He shrugs, not giving me any hints. “Time will tell.”
It’s a short drive, maybe twenty minutes, but long enough for me to notice the way his hand keeps drifting toward me, fingers grasping for mine.
When the car finally rolls to a stop, I blink at the sprawling entrance ahead. Glistening fountains flank a grand circular drive, water arcing high and catching the last of the sunset. Golden light spills across manicured palms and sleek stone walkways.
Fancy as fuck.
“Holy crap,” I breathe. “Are we staying here . . . ?”
“Yup,” Callum grins, already around to open my door. “Welcome to the Estrella.”
Even from Washington I’ve heard of it. A high-end desert oasis tucked into the foothills—luxury spa, five-star dining, and one of those pools with the water that disappears into the horizon like magic. No edge.
He offers his hand, and I take it to exit the vehicle.
“What on earth is happening?” I whisper as he leads me through the opulent lobby, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and whisper-quiet elegance.
“You’ll see,” he says.
My heart does a slow somersault.
I have no idea what he’s planning and neither do the butterflies swirling in my stomach, but I follow beside him all the same, past the marble fountain that trickles gently in the center of the grand foyer, past the arched entry lined with lanterns and tropical palms, through a wide hall that smells like eucalyptus and fresh-cut citrus.
The deeper we go, the quieter it gets—until the buzz of the lobby fades and it’s just the soft sound of our footsteps and the fluttering beat of my own curiosity.
We step through a pair of tall wooden doors into a courtyard strung with twinkle lights.
Desert blooms spill from massive stone planters.
A canopy stretches overhead, woven with vines and tiny white flowers.
Candlelit tables. A long aisle carpeted in light-colored woven rugs. A small string quartet playing quietly.
And then—
I freeze.
Not because of the music. Or the setting. But because I start recognizing faces.
Lucy. She’s in a navy sundress, hair straightened.
Next to her? Our parents. Harris—towering over Lucy and freshly shaven in an actual suit, straightening his tie like it’s trying to strangle him. One or two other massive men I do not know but who are probably teammates.
Evy from the wedding at the lake. She winks at me over a champagne flute.
And then—oh my God.
Pastor Dan.
What are these people doing here?
My heart stops. My feet stop.
Callum’s hand tightens on mine, giving me a supportive squeeze.
I whip toward him, eyes wide. “Is this—are we—”
He doesn’t answer. Just smiles.
Because yeah.
We are.
I think I might cry.
I know exactly what this is.
It hits me all at once—the lights, the flowers, the way Lucy is dabbing at her eyes even though no one’s said anything yet. The way Harris is smiling and looks as if he may cry too. And the woman near the bar?
She’s holding a folder. A manila folder that looks pretty damn official.
My heart stumbles, then takes off like it’s running a sprint I didn’t train for as Maverick moves in front of me, his hand warm as it wraps around mine. I look up at him, already blinking fast, because oh God—I really should’ve worn waterproof mascara.
“This is the best I could do in this short amount of time,” he says softly, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. “I didn’t want to let you leave without knowing exactly where I stand. No games. No halfway promises.”
My throat burns. My lips part, but I can’t speak. Can barely breathe.
He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever been sure of.
“I don’t care if you want to live in the desert, the suburbs, or a yurt in Washington. I just want you. I want to be your husband, your baby daddy, your back-rubber and late-night decaf runner. Forever.”
I might actually melt into a puddle right here. Or scream. Or cry. Probably all three.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a ring box, and flips it open.
And then—without even flinching—he says the words I didn’t know I was waiting for:
“Annabelle, will you marry me?”