My girl.
My fiancée soon, I hope.
I said I loved her for the first time out loud downstairs, although I’ve spent all of today convincing myself that I’m not crazy for thinking it. And I can’t wait to say it again—to her.
I find my grandmother’s ring in an old ring box, the velvet rubbed away on the corners from age. The ring inside isn’t gaudy or ostentatious like the rest of my mother’s jewelry, and the fact that she bothers to keep it in the safe at all is a hint that despite all her materialism, my mother actually does have a heart buried down under all that money.
This ring is the only item of sentimental rather than monetary value in the whole safe, and that’s exactly why I know Brooklyn will love it.
I make two pit stops—one back at my house to get showered and dressed up, and one at the Baker house to ask Cory and Martha for Brooklyn’s hand in marriage.
And then, feeling more nervous than I expected to, I head for Brooklyn’s place.
11
Brooklyn
I’m in my PJs with a glass of wine in hand when my doorbell rings.
I’ve been off work for a couple of hours and I have to admit, I’m still wallowing a little bit. What Ty told me about Prescott was reassuring, and Nora and Cassidy told me that I’ve got to follow my heart… but I know I’d have a hard time getting involved with someone that Martha and Cory didn’t approve of. So how can Prescott still want me now that his parents have thoroughly rejected me?
All of that is running through my head as I set down my wine glass and pad over to the door in my fuzzy slippers. No clue who’s at my door—a delivery person with a package I forgot about, or maybe Nora dropping in on me unannounced like she loves to do.
But when I pull the door open, I find Prescott.
In a tailored suit. With a bouquet of frangipani just like he brought me before our first date.
He looks so damn good, I nearly forget that I’m in my PJs. Nearly.
“Prescott,” I say, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I missed you, Brooklyn,” he says, “and I wanted to apologize in person for my parents.”
“You apologized the other night,” I point out.
“But I didn’t tell them off right then and there for what they said to you, and I should have,” he says. “Can I come in?”
Butterflies make my stomach quiver at the thought of being alone in my apartment with him. I’m thinking of our night together after the movie, how his lips felt on mine, how his body fit perfectly against my own.
It’s only been two days but I miss him so much it hurts.
“Of course,” I say.
We go into the living room and sit on the couch, where I quickly fold and put away the lap blanket I’ve been burritoing myself in. For a second I wonder if I should excuse myself, slip into something a bit less comfortable, but hey, this is the real Brooklyn Hart. The girl who grew up in a trailer park with parents who loved her, who thinks the people in her life are far more valuable than anything money could buy, who occasionally spends her evenings in baggy fleece pajama bottoms.
Take her or leave her.
Prescott gives me the flowers, then says, “I want you to know that I went back over to my parents’ house this afternoon and set them straight. I told them that you’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met, and that money’s got nothing to do with it. I told them that they can either accept you with open arms or they’ll have nothing to do with either of our lives… and I told them that I am madly, deeply in love with you.”
I’ve never had a take-your-breath-away moment before—I always thought it was something that people like Martha make up for fictional romantic moments. But I honestly can’t catch my breath right now.
“You do?”
He nods, and then all of a sudden, I’m not only breathing again, I’m sobbing. Prescott furrows his brow, then pulls me into a fierce hug. “What’s wrong?”
“I love you too,” I tell him.
I can feel his soft laugh rumbling in his chest as I rest against him. He tilts my head up to look at him. “And that’s a problem?”
“I looked you up online,” I confess, “after dinner with your parents. I saw your Instagram.”
Prescott’s cheeks color. “Damn.”
“I don’t know how I could ever hope to compete with yachts and exotic trips… and those models you hang out with,” I say, self-conscious of my curves in a way that I’m not normally. “I just keep thinking about what your dad said, about living up to the Beaufont name.” I smile even though it hurts and add, “You’re going to get bored with me eventually.”
“Hell no, I won’t,” he says, practically growls the words. “Brooklyn, look at me.”
I do. I gaze into those smoldering eyes and the butterflies in my stomach announce themselves again—I can’t even look at him without feeling it in my core, my heart, my everything. That’s why this is breaking my heart so completely.
But then…
“I should have told you about my history sooner,” he says. “I didn’t want you to hear the name Beaufont and see some spoiled rich asshole… especially because that’s who I used to be. That’s not me anymore, but I keep my old Instagram account just to remind myself how entitled I used to be, and how much good I can do with what I have instead.”
A tiny wave of relief is starting to build within me. All of this is ringing true, sounding so much
