24. Kyle The Proposal
Kyle: The Proposal
The smell of something burning pulls me from sleep.
I blink against the morning light streaming through my penthouse window, rubbing a hand over my face. It takes a second for my brain to register the faint sounds of metal clanking and muffled cursing coming from the kitchen.
Ethan.
I throw on a T-shirt and head toward the kitchen, where I find my son standing over the stove with a spatula in one hand and a pan in the other, his brows furrowed in frustration.
Smoke rises from what I assume was supposed to be pancakes, now reduced to blackened, unrecognizable blobs.
I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. "Need some help there, Chef Ethan?"
He startles, then shoots me a sheepish grin. "Uh . . . no. I got this."
I chuckle, stepping forward to ruffle his hair. "Sure you do."
He groans, swatting my hand away. "Dad, seriously?"
"Seriously," I say, peering into the pan. "What exactly were you trying to make?"
"Pancakes," he mutters. "Chloe was still sleeping, and I thought I’d make breakfast before she woke up."
"Good initiative," I say, opening the fridge and pulling out some eggs. "Terrible execution."
"Gee, thanks," he says flatly.
Footsteps echo from the hallway before Chloe appears, still wrapped in her oversized hoodie, hair in a messy bun. She yawns, rubbing her eyes. "What’s burning?"
"Your brother’s dreams of being a chef," I say.
Ethan glares at me. "I’d like to see you do better."
I smirk. "Challenge accepted."
Grabbing the eggs, I crack a few into a bowl and whisk them together. Chloe plops onto a stool at the kitchen island, watching me like it’s the most interesting thing she’s seen all morning. Ethan leans against the counter, arms crossed.
A comfortable silence settles as I fry the eggs, the sound of sizzling filling the space.
Chloe breaks the silence first. "Saw you on TV the other day."
I glance at her. "When did you start watching that kind of TV?"
She shrugs. "It was trending on my feed."
I shake my head. "And?"
She smirks. "You looked all serious and broody as usual. But I liked what you said about Leslie."
I pause, glancing between her and Ethan. "Yeah?"
Chloe grins. "Yeah. It was nice seeing you, you know . . . admitting your feelings to the whole world."
I roll my eyes. "I wouldn’t say the whole world—"
"Dad," she interrupts, giving me a pointed look. "It was everywhere."
Ethan leans forward, interested now. "Wait, so you and Leslie are back together?"
I plate the eggs and slide a portion toward each of them before sitting down with my own. "Yeah," I say simply.
Ethan nods. "Good. I like her. She’s cool."
Something warm settles in my chest. "Yeah. She is."
Chloe takes a bite of her eggs, then points her fork at me. "Just don’t screw it up this time."
I arch a brow. "I’ll take that under advisement."
They continue talking about random things—school, friends, some new game Ethan’s obsessed with—while I eat, letting their voices fill the space.
It feels . . . normal. Ease. I let myself relax.
But as soon as I leave for work, the ease fades.
***
The week drags on with an unbearable slowness. Meetings, emails, board discussions—none of it holds my attention the way it should. Not when all I can think about is Leslie.
Not after I told the entire world that I love her.
She hasn’t said it back. Not in words, at least. But she hasn’t run, either. She’s still here, in my office every day, challenging me, teasing me, making my life infinitely more interesting.
And that’s how I know.
I don’t need time. I don’t need second guesses. I just need her.
So, on Friday afternoon, as Leslie finishes up a meeting with the marketing team, I step into her office and lean against the doorway. She looks up from her laptop, raising a brow.
"You look suspicious," she says.
I smirk. "Pack a bag. We're leaving for the weekend."
She blinks. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I say, crossing the room and placing my hands on her desk. "No work. No stress. Just you and me. We’re going to my beach house."
Her lips twitch like she’s considering a challenge, but then she exhales, shaking her head with a soft smile. "You’re really set on this, aren’t you?"
"Very."
She bites her lip, pretending to hesitate, but I see the flicker of excitement in her eyes.
"Fine," she finally says, shutting her laptop. "But if I see you respond to a single email notification, I’m throwing your phone in the ocean."
I grin. "Deal."
***
The drive is peaceful, filled with soft music playing through the speakers and the occasional comfortable silence between us.
Leslie leans back in her seat, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on her thigh as she watches the city shrink behind us.
Every now and then, I glance at her—at the way the sunlight catches in her hair, at the slight curve of her lips when she hums along to a song.
Somewhere along the highway, her stomach growls, breaking the quiet.
She groans, covering her face. “Pretend you didn’t hear that.”
I smirk, already slowing the car. “Too late. And lucky for you, I know a place up ahead.”
Fifteen minutes later, we pull into a small, roadside diner—a hidden gem I found years ago on one of my weekend escapes.
It’s the kind of place where the scent of sizzling bacon hits you the second you step inside. The kind where the servers recognize you after a couple of visits and call you ‘hon’ without hesitation.
Leslie stretches as she steps out of the car, arching her back slightly. I try not to stare. I fail.
She catches me. “See something you like, Mr. Donovan?”
“Always.” I smirk, grabbing her hand and leading her inside.
The place is half-full, mostly locals and a few travelers. A woman behind the counter, probably in her sixties, grins as she spots me. “Well, well. Look who’s back.”
“Hey, Donna.” I nod. “Got room for two?”
“For you? Always.” She eyes Leslie with interest but doesn’t say anything—just leads us to a cozy booth by the window and hands us menus.
Leslie slides into the seat across from me, flipping through the menu. “So, you’re a regular here?”
“Something like that.” I glance at the specials, already knowing what I want. “They make the best pancakes.”
Leslie raises an eyebrow. “Pancakes for dinner?”
I shrug. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
She rolls her eyes but grins. “Fine. Surprise me.”
When Donna returns, I order a stack of blueberry pancakes, crispy bacon, and tea for myself. For Leslie, I order the same—minus the tea. She’s a coffee person.
As we wait for our food, Leslie rests her chin on her hand, studying me. “You seem . . . lighter.”
I tilt my head. “Lighter?”
“Like you’re not carrying the weight of the world anymore.” Her voice softens. “It looks good on you.”
The words settle into my chest, warm and steady. I reach across the table, brushing my fingers over hers. “You do that for me.”
She squeezes my hand just as Donna returns with our plates, setting them down with a wink. “Enjoy, lovebirds.”
Leslie laughs, her cheeks turning pink. “We’re not—” She stops when I shoot her a look, smirking. “Okay, maybe we are.”
The pancakes are just as good as I remember, fluffy and soaked in maple syrup. Leslie moans after the first bite, eyes going wide. “Okay, I take it back. Pancakes for dinner is genius.”
“Told you.” I smirk, watching as she devours another forkful.
We linger longer than planned, caught up in easy conversation and stolen bites from each other’s plates. It’s one of those simple, ordinary moments that somehow feel extraordinary with her.
When we finally hit the road again, the sun is dipping lower, painting the sky in deep shades of gold and violet.
By the time we reach the beach house, dusk has settled, and the sight before us steals Leslie’s breath.
She steps out slowly, her gaze sweeping over the house—the sleek yet inviting architecture, the floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the ocean, the soft glow of lanterns lining the deck. The sound of waves crashing in the distance only adds to the serenity of the place.
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally—
“Wow.”
I grin, watching her take it all in. “Not bad, huh?”
She turns to me, her eyes bright. “Not bad? Kyle, this is stunning.”
I set our bags down and step closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Glad you like it.”
“I love it.” She spins around, taking in every inch of the view. “It’s . . . perfect.”
Her excitement is infectious. Watching her fall in love with this place—seeing the way she lights up just standing here—makes me certain of one thing.
This weekend, I’m going to make sure she never doubts how much she belongs here. How much she belongs with me.
***
Inside, I light the fireplace while Leslie explores the house, slipping off her shoes and padding across the wooden floors like she belongs here. Maybe because she does.
When she wanders back into the living room, she finds me sitting on the couch, watching the flames. She doesn't say anything at first—just stands there, looking at me like she’s trying to read my mind.
"Come here," I say softly.
She does.
The second she’s within reach, I pull her onto my lap, letting her straddle me. Her fingers trace over my jaw, her eyes filled with something deep, something unspoken.
"You really love me," she whispers.
I take her hand and press it against my chest, right over my heartbeat. "Yes."
She lets out a slow breath, her fingers threading through my hair, nails lightly brushing my skin. "Even after everything?"
"Because of everything." My voice is steady, sure. I tilt my head and press a soft kiss to her lips, making sure she feels the truth in my words. "I don’t want to waste another second, Leslie."
Her breath catches, and then she leans in.
This kiss is different. It’s not just about passion—it’s about everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve survived.
Her hands slip under my shirt, her touch warm against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. She’s not just holding me—she’s pulling me closer, closing the distance that’s been between us for too long.
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as our mouths stay connected, as if we can’t bear to be apart.
She laughs softly against my lips, breathless and light, but there’s something deeper underneath—something real.
When I lay her down on the bed, hovering over her, her eyes meet mine. There’s no doubt. No hesitation.
Just us.
We take our time undressing each other, touching, exploring, savoring.
Her fingers trace the lines of my chest and back, familiar yet still curious. I do the same, letting my hands and lips remind her how much she means to me.
And when I finally move inside her, she gasps, gripping my shoulders. I bury my face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in as we find our rhythm, completely lost in each other.
This time, it’s different.
Deeper.
It’s not just about physical connection—it’s about something stronger, something unbreakable.
When we finally fall apart together, she holds onto me, her face pressed against my chest. I wrap my arms around her, placing a gentle kiss on top of her head, feeling her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against mine.
I should wait. Let her rest. Let this moment last a little longer.
But I can’t.
Not when I’ve been carrying this ring for days, waiting for the right time.
Carefully, I shift, reaching for my jacket on the nightstand. Leslie stirs, her sleepy eyes finding mine, her hair messy, her skin still flushed.
Her voice is quiet. "What are you doing?"
I take a deep breath, my heart pounding as I pull out the small velvet box. It feels heavier than it should, filled with every unspoken promise, every ounce of love I have for her.
"Something I’ve been wanting to do."
Leslie pushes herself up on her elbows, the blanket slipping down her bare shoulders. She looks so beautiful, so completely mine, that my chest tightens.
I hold up the ring, my voice strong even as my heart races. "I love you, Leslie. And I don’t want to waste another second."
She sucks in a breath, her lips parting, her eyes moving between me and the ring in my hand.
I take her hand, brushing my thumb over her skin, grounding myself in her warmth. "Marry me."
The silence between us is thick—not with hesitation, but with something deeper, something heavier.
Leslie looks at me. Then at the ring. Then back at me.
And then—she smiles.
But she doesn’t answer.