by Nora Roberts
“The point is, I don’t want to keep living my life alone.” His head snapped up, and his bruised eye glared out from under the arched, scarred brow. “Do you understand that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Her smirk remained firmly in place. “You’re sloppy in love with me, pal.”
“Keep it up, just keep it up.” He hissed out a breath, eased a hand onto his aching side. “My feelings aren’t the issue, and maybe yours aren’t, either. Things happen to people’s emotions under intense circumstances.”
“Now he’s being philosophical again. Must be that minor in anthropology.”
He closed his eyes, prayed for patience. “I’m trying to lay out my cards here. You come from a different place than I do, and maybe you don’t want to head where I’m heading. Maybe you want to slow down some now, take it in more careful steps. More traditional.”
Now she snorted. “Is that how I strike you? The traditional type?”
His frown only deepened. “Maybe not, but it doesn’t change the fact that a week ago you were cruising along in your own lane just fine. You’ve got a right to ask questions, look for reasons. A couple of days with me—”
“I’m not asking questions or looking for reasons, Jack,” she said, interrupting him. “I stopped cruising in my own lane the day I met you, and I’m glad of it.”
Oh, hell, she thought, and braced. “It stands for Magdalen Juliette.”
A cough of laughter escaped him. It was the last thing he’d expected. “You’re kidding.”
“It stands for Magdalen Juliette,” she repeated between clenched teeth. “And the only people who know that are my family, Bailey and Grace. In other words, only people I love and trust, which now includes you.”
“Magdalen Juliette,” he repeated, rolling it around on his tongue. “Quite a handle, sugar.”
“It’s M.J. Legally M.J., because that’s what I wanted. And if you ever call me any form of Magdalen Juliette other than M.J., I will personally and with great pleasure skin you alive.”
She would, too, he thought with a quick, crooked grin. “If you don’t want me using it, why did you tell me?”
She took a step toward him. “I told you that, and I’m telling you this, because my name is M.J. O’Leary, and I know what I want.”
His eyes flared and burned away the grin. “You’re sure of that?”
“The second stone’s knowledge. And I know. Do you?”
“Yeah.” His breathing took a hitch. “It’s a big step.”
“The biggest.”
“Okay.” His palms were sweaty in his pockets, so he pulled them free. “You go first.”
Her grin flashed. “No, you.”
“No way. I said it first last time. Fair’s fair.”
She supposed it was. Angling her head, she took a good long look at him. Yes, she thought. She knew. “Okay. Let’s get married.”
Relishing the swift kick of joy, he tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “Aren’t you supposed to ask? You know, propose? A guy’s entitled to a little romance at big moments.”
“You’re pushing your luck.” Then she laughed and locked her arms around his neck. “But what the hell—will you marry me, Jack?”
“Sure, why not?”
And when she laughed again, he caught her against his sore and battered body.
Perfect fit.