"I know," he says. "Fool me twice, shame on me."
"Exactly. It felt like...if I let you pull the wool over my eyes, it would be my fault, more than yours." I suck in a deep breath. "Because I should know better."
He shakes his head a little. "It always used to drive me crazy, you know - the way you beat yourself up. You're smart as hell, Lissy. Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody's a little bit stupid sometimes."
I giggle, softly.
"What?" he demands, smiling a little.
"You sound like him."
"He sounds like me," Dean corrects me. "I came first."
"Right, of course." I'm still laughing. "I just can't believe I didn't piece it together until now."
"I can't imagine why you would have," Dean says. "If I hadn't gotten my storylines mixed up..."
"But he always sounded just like you," I point out.
He smiles, stroking my hair back from my face. "Lissy, listen. I didn't understand why you shut me out. I do now. I took you for granted, and I promise I won't let that happen again." He pauses, just breathing for a minute. "Do you promise the same for me?"
"Yes," I whisper, without having to think about it. "Yes."
And for now, that's good enough.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wanted
In the end, everybody got what they wanted.
I got to be with the man I'd fallen for, over a series of dirty text messages, because he was the same man I'd loved all along. Dean got a chance to prove himself as a changed man, he best lover and the best dominant anyone could possibly ask for. We're even going to see the new Paranormal Activity together. I promised him that if the movie turns out to be tedious, we'll find a way to make it interesting.
Jack got to sleep with those twins, but he did admit that I was right - it was a weirder experience than he was expecting. We don't hang out quite as much now, but he's still my go-to for any life drama that would make Dean roll his eyes too far. He and Dean have a cordial understanding. They are friendly, but not too friendly, because the last thing I need is a conflict of interest between my fiancé and my best friend. Jack is my confidant, and occasionally, that requires him to side against Dean. That's just the way it goes.
Oh, right. The ring. I guess I got ahead of myself there. I never did end up taking it off, because I was afraid I'd forget to put it back on again when I saw my family. Eventually, I just leave it there, because it feels right.
The actual proposal happens very quietly and without fanfare, as we slip into bed together one evening in the spring.
"So, do you...do you actually want to get married?"
Dean has that look on his face like he's ready to play it off as a joke at a moment's notice, if necessary.
I glance down at my hand. "Well, did you mean it when you asked me?"
"I kind of did," he confesses. "It's all I've really wanted for a long time."
"Really?"
He nods, sliding his arms around me. "I already lost you once. I'm not letting you slip through my fingers again."
So even my parents got what they wanted - a big, public spectacle of a proposal, even if it's not quite what anyone thought it would be. Tabby helps me with venues, Stephanie is dealing with all the decorating, and Nick is finding the band while Scott does the first round of eliminations for the bakeries. Arthur wants to handle the flowers, and I'm very proud of the fact that nobody in my family feels the need to make fun of him for it. Even Dean takes more of an active interest than I would have expected. He's still capable of surprising me.
"What do you think of getting married in an art museum?" I hand Dean the pamphlet across the breakfast table on a lazy Saturday morning.
"Sounds expensive," he says, smiling. "Won't your dad be upset that it's not a church?"
"He'll get over it." I shrug. "He only acts super-traditional because he feels like it's his only identifying personality trait now that he's getting older. I'm just grateful he skipped over the typical midlife crisis, sports car, younger woman thing."
"Small mercies," Dean agrees. "It does look nice, but are they one of those places that charge an extra fee for cake-cutting or any of that 'we're happy to bleed brides dry because we think they're irrational' bullshit?"
I chuckle. "I'll make sure and ask when I call. What difference does it make? It's a wedding, everything's overpriced."
"It's the principle of the thing," he mutters. "Shouldn't you be getting all riled up about this? They only do it because weddings are traditionally planned by women. Girl power, and all that?"
Laughing, I reach for his hand and clasp it between my fingers. He sighs, relaxing a little. "Honestly? This is the least girl-power sentiment you'll ever hear from me, but after everything that's happened, I'm just glad I'm finally marrying you."
His eyes lock with mine, and his smile is nothing but genuine love. "Don't screw it up."
"Right back at you." I glance back down at the massive notebook in front of me. "Do you think we should invite the Risingers? Meg said they wanted to come when we were hanging out at that convention in Florida, but I think that might've been the whiskey talking."
"Can't hurt," he says. "It's probably not their usual caliber of event, but you know, we can spring for a few ice sculptures if you want."
I make a face. "Is it really bad that I kind of want one? I know it's probably the most ridiculous thing you could possibly spend money on, but..." I sigh, dreamily. "A swan made out of ice."
Dean stands up, coming around to my side of the table and grabbing both my hands in his. When he pulls me to my feet, just for a moment, he actually takes my breath away.
Okay, so maybe I let it happen. But nobody said you couldn't meet a perfect love story halfway.
"You can have all the ice sculptures you want, Lana DeVane," he says, as our noses bump together. "You've earned it."
***
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HIS SECRETARY: UNDONE
I'm about to throw an ashtray at my boss's head.
Turns out, the mind behind my favorite, steamy romance novels...the ones I only read in private...the ones that are my only escape after a long day of dealing with The Boss From Hell? It's not Natalie McBride, the sweet, rural housewife.
It's him.
That's right: my boss, Adrian Risinger, the thirty-three-year-old, maddeningly sexy, pissant billionaire "bad boy" who thinks he runs my life. He is also the author of all my deepest, most secret fantasies. And to make matters worse, he needs me to impersonate "Natalie" at a series of book signings and conventions. But, of course, that's only if I want to keep my job.
On second thought, I'm going to need something heavier than an ashtray.
Read it now!
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The Absolutely True Story of Us Page 13