Chapter 31 #2
I swallow the lump in my throat, tempted to jump up out of this chair and hug him, as an unexpected wave of emotion floods my insides. It feels a lot like pride. And love. Or maybe it’s happiness? Pure, raw happiness.
These two bone-heads are doing this for me.
Because they care.
I blink rapidly, refusing to cry. But I wasn’t emotionally prepared for this level of sincerity in the middle of a professional hockey rink, with wine and white glove service.
“Did you rehearse this?” I ask, my voice on the verge of cracking.
Declan snorts. “Abso-fucking-lutely not.”
Aaron rolls his eyes. “For the record, I still have my eyes on him.”
Declan lifts his chin. “Likewise.”
Right.
It wouldn’t be easy to forgive these transgressions. Not overnight. Not fully. What happened between them isn’t erased because someone put on a bow tie.
“But the same could be said about you,” I point out, looking at Aaron. “You’re not exactly innocent.”
His shoulders drop. “I know.”
“I’ll have to keep my eye on both of you,” I decide, swirling the red wine in my glass.
Aaron smirks. “I welcome your supervision.”
On the ice, my brother shifts his weight and the tray in his hand wobbles.
He swallows.
“Can I set the milkshake down?” he finally blurts. “My arm is getting tired. This glass is heavier than it looks.”
“That’s because you’re weak,” Aaron jabs.
Declan’s head snaps toward him. “I am not weak. I am conserving upper-body strength.”
Aaron smirks. “You’re trembling.”
“I am not trembling.”
The tray dips again.
“Please—for the love of all that is holy, set the tray down,” I beg, pressing my lips together to keep the laughter from bubbling up as my brother takes a milkshake off the tray and sets it in the center of the table with exaggerated pomp and ceremony.
Frosted glass full of vanilla ice cream. Whipped cream. Cherry on top.
Two spoons.
Two straws.
It’s the same milkshake we had the night we went for dinner and drinks…
“You weaponized nostalgia,” I accuse softly, delighted. Completely, helplessly delighted.
I tingle from head to toe.
Aaron preens, smugly pleased with himself. “Guilty.” He pauses. “And now I’m going to feed it to you.”
My brother makes a choking sound.
“Dude.” He coughs. “I’m standing right here. At least wait until I skate away.”
Aaron doesn’t even glance at him. “I don’t know about that,” he says lazily. “Maybe you should stick around so you can learn how to properly court a lady.”
He dips the spoon into the whipped cream with deliberate slowness, dragging it through vanilla and whipped cream until it’s the perfect bite. He lifts it toward me, hand hovering between us over the table.
“Open,” he says, low and gravelly.
“Oh my god—is this foreplay?” Declan sounds genuinely horrified. “I’m going to vomit.”
Aaron smiles at me as he says, “Skate away, bro.”
Declan glares at him. “You are on thin ice.”
“We are literally on ice.”
Declan throws his hands up. “Unbelievable. I humble myself by being here as your server. I demonstrate emotional growth—and this is what I get?”
I nod. “This is what you get.”
I cannot wait to tell Blaire about this.
She will eat the details up.
Satisfied that he’s no longer needed or welcome, Declan pushes off and skates backward a few feet before turning toward the tunnel, apron strings fluttering behind him.
The rink quiets.
The air suddenly feels toastier.
Aaron is still holding the spoon, waiting for me.
I lean forward; take the bite.
Close my eyes and moan. “Mmm.”
Frozen vanilla melts on my tongue. When I open my eyes again, Aaron is watching me like I handed him the Stanley Cup.
He sets the spoon down.
Fusses with the napkin.
Reaches for his wine glass and lifts it toward me, eyes never leaving mine. “To new beginnings.”
He lifts his glass a little higher.
“To new beginnings,” he repeats. “With a beautiful, smart woman, who scares the hell out of me in the best possible way.”
My breath catches, but he keeps going.
“You deserve effort and honesty and a man who doesn’t hide behind ego, or other people.”
I don’t even know what to say.
“Aaron—”
He shakes his head, wanting and needing to finish this before he loses his nerve.
“Juliette,” he says, and hearing my name on his lips makes my pulse stutter. “This isn’t about rivalry or revenge or timing. I don’t want you wondering if you’re part of some game, because you’re not.” His thumb brushes over the stem of his glass. “I want this to be about you and me.”
He sets the wine down.
Reaches across the table.
Takes my hand.
His fingers are warm despite the cold air, and I stare down at our joined hands.
“I like you,” he says simply. “I respect you. And don’t want this to be casual.”
My heart pounds so loudly I swear I can hear it.
“Here is me being very clear about my intentions,” he continues, faint smile curving his mouth. “Juliette Kennedy. Will you do me the honor of dating me?”
For a beat, I can’t speak.
This man.
This ridiculous, stubborn, giant hunk of a man.
I lift my wine glass, but instead of toasting immediately, I tilt my head and look at him with as much sincerity as I can without grinning like a complete love-sick fool.
“Yes,” I say, glass still raised. “Yes, I would love to date you.”
Our glasses clink.
“To us,” he murmurs.
“To us.” A sweet sip of wine warms my tongue. “You realize this is the craziest ‘how did the two of you meet?’ story of all time, even though you did not have to bribe a Zamboni driver and put my brother in a bow tie to win me over.”
His dimple flashes. “Shit, then I have some bad news for you…”
My brow furrows. “Bad news?”
“Yeah. If you think the Zamboni was over the top, then you’re going to hate this.” That dimple of his makes an appearance, all smug and unapologetic.
“I’m so confused! Just tell me.”
“Patience,” he says, pointing toward the massive screen above us. “This is what’s going to play at the next home game.”
I blink. “What is?”
My confusion deepens as I twist my body, contorting so I can squint up at the Jumbotron.
It comes to life.
A cartoon version of us pops onto the screen. At least, I think it’s supposed to be us: a big dude skating around and a small blonde wearing a headband, running away from him… Who else could it possibly be?
Cartoon Aaron says something, and a speech bubble pops up, while cartoon Juliette rolls her eyes.
Then he drops to one knee. And even though we’re animated, this moment is one I will never forget. Especially when the speech bubble reads:
WILL YOU DATE ME?!
A giant speech bubble pops up above cartoon Juliette:
YES!
Confetti. Balloons.
It is adorable.
My eyes widen. “You are not putting that on the Jumbotron in front of thousands of people.”
Aaron laughs. “Guess you’ll have to be there to find out.”
At the same time, the Zamboni engine rumbles back to life and begins making a slow, deliberate pass along the boards, staying at the far end, but causing a disruption just the same.
Then, before either of us can say another word, a sudden, triumphant HONK blasts through the arena, echoing off the empty seats, high, steel trusses and tin roof.
We both jump half out of our seats.
The Zamboni driver stands in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other slamming the horn.
HOOOONK.
He gives us an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and one last celebratory honk for good measure, before steering the machine in a slow victory lap around center ice.
“I think he thought you were proposing,” I say at last, once my heart rate has gone back to normal.
Aaron watches the Zamboni complete its celebratory lap, then looks back at me, one brow lifting slowly.
“Babe, when I propose, you’ll know.”