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open my eyes, looking briefly at our joined hands before raising my eyes to his face. "I promise I won't
be terrible at it."
Nodding, affected by his husky, emotion-filled voice, I reply softly. "I know."
After a few seconds go by, he prods. "Are you going to give me an answer, Swan?"
"You haven't asked me the question yet, Cullen." I watch his lips curl upward, his eyes crinkling at the
corners, when he realizes I'm right. He tugs on my hand, and I go willingly, gripping his shoulder for
balance as I move ungracefully to straddle his lap; I wanted to be closer to him, too. I hear him swallow
just before he says the words.
"Will you marry me?"
"Yes," I whisper, smiling as I press my lips to his. "Will you marry me?"
He chuckles, but doesn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Then it's settled," I murmur between kisses. "We're getting married." Pulling back with a gasp, I look at
him, wide-eyed. "Holy crap, Cullen! We're getting married. Tomorrow. We don't have rings. I don't have
a dress. We don't even have airline tickets."
"We have tickets," he interjects sheepishly as his cheeks redden. Pursing my lips to the side, I furrow my
brow. "I already booked us on the flight."
"I don't know if that's presumptuous or romantic."
"It's both," he quips. "But mostly romantic."
He kisses me, first nipping at my lower lip, and then sliding his tongue along mine as our mouths meet
and pull apart again and again. His broad hand is spread across my back, holding me tightly against his
chest, and I get lost in the rush of prickling desire that crawls up my spine. But I resist when he tries to
tip us sideways to lie down.
"What's wrong?" he asks, skimming his mouth along my jaw.
"Don't we need to make some plans?" I mumble.
"Mmhmm. In a minute." Burying his face in my neck, he sucks on the skin below my ear. His hand falls
lower on my back, keeping me in place as he presses himself against me. For a moment, I let myself
enjoy the sensation, rolling my hips just a bit& just enough to make him groan. Then, moving quickly, I
detach myself and scoot off the bed.
"Legs," he protests, turning to look at me. "Come back. I'll behave."
He joins in when I laugh; we both know that's not true. "No way. I've been tricked into that before,
Cullen," I claim, backing up a couple of steps. "Besides, I feel like& I mean, I think maybe we should
wait, you know, until tomorrow."
"You're kidding me," he gripes, lying back on the bed. But I see his grin before he rolls to his stomach,
hiding his face. "We're not going to have sex the whole time we're engaged?"
Engaged. A thrill rushes through me when he says the word, but I keep my tone cheeky as I reply. "I
think you'll survive twenty-four hours."
"It'll be more like twenty-seven before we get home," he remarks. Turning his head, he studies me. "It's
no problem for me. I'm just worried about you."
"Me?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.
"Yeah. You're always grabbing at me, trying to pull my clothes off." He pushes himself up to sit on the
side of the bed, fighting to keep a straight face. "So if you change your mind about waiting, it's okay. I
won't judge you."
"Thanks," I laugh, moving to stand between his legs. "I'm not changing my mind, though. About
anything."
"Good to know." Wrapping his arms around my waist, he holds me close, sighing against my collarbone.
"I love you, Swan."
Smiling, feeling like my heart might burst, I answer. "I love you, too."
"What's up with you today?"
Emmett's question breaks the silence in the studio, startling me. Pulling my attention away from the
notes I was reading on my laptop, I glance to my right and meet his inquisitive stare.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Swan, you've spent the last three years openly admiring a certain tight end's tight end. He was on
Monday Night Football last night, but you've barely mentioned him or his tight, white pants."
Emmett's right; I usually can't contain my Jimmy Graham gushing, although my appreciation this season
has been solely centered on his talent and effort, and not his ass. But my preoccupation with watching
the clock this morning has hindered my interest for every topic we've discussed, including Jimmy. I'm not
fessing up to that, though.
"The Saints don't wear white pants," I retort instead, smirking. "Home or away."
"Forget the pants," he says through gritted teeth, exasperated by my evasion. "He had a season-high
receiving yards total, but you've hardly commented on it."
"I said he had a great game. What else do you want me to say?"
Looking away from him, I focus on sorting the papers for the lead-in. We're in the final bottom-of-the-
hour break of the show, meaning we'll be off the air in just over half an hour, and I'll be driving straight to
the airport. Cullen should be on his way there now in a cab, so we can ride home together when we
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