Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(20)

Still a plus sign. Still a hell of a question, demanding a f*ck of an answer. Just like that, the haze was gone, sucked away by the shower fan. And Laurel knew she’d be lucky to sleep a single wink, tonight.





6





“Now you’re definitely sure about this?”

Flynn glanced at the girl in his passenger seat—a year or two younger than Laurel, plump, with a plain, expressive face and a vinyl purse shaped like a cheeseburger.

“Positive,” he said.

It had been a week since the appearance of the little blue plus sign, and whether Laurel’s roommate knew she was pregnant, Flynn wasn’t sure. He doubted it. Laurel held things back, held things in, even from her friends. Plus Anne hadn’t said anything to suggest she knew, and unlike Laurel, she wasn’t the type to withhold.

Anyhow, this mission had to do with a different—if no less monumental—uncertainty.

“This is so exciting,” Anne said, shaking her mittened fists before her, all but vibrating. “I’m so honored you tapped me for the job.”

“I’m relieved as f*ck you said yes. I don’t have the first clue what sort of a ring she’d want.”

Nor did Flynn have the first clue if Laurel would say yes when he proposed. He only knew that he was certain, and ready, and that the decision felt right.

They’d been living with the unanswered question of the pregnancy for what felt like eons, and though he ached for a decision, he knew better than to rush her. Plus he felt nearly comfortable with the ambiguity, now. And steeled more than ever in his commitment, whether they wound up raising a kid together in nine months or five years or never. His mind was made up, and he’d always defaulted to action over navel-gazing.

At this very moment, Laurel was at his sister’s place, helping get ready for a party to celebrate his niece’s graduation from vocational college. It was a Sunday and he’d told Laurel a white lie—said he’d picked up an overtime shift for the afternoon and that he’d catch up with them all later. No doubt with a tiny velvet box burning a hole in his jacket pocket.

“You came to the right woman,” Anne said with gravity.

“You sound confident.”

“I bet Laurel and I have watched the past four Bachelor and Bachelorette finales together.”

“That a TV show?”

“It is! It’s the best TV show there is. And at the end of every season a chick gets proposed to, and there’s always a bit where the dude—or dudes—pick out the engagement ring. They show them perusing a few different designs, and we judge the crap out of every one.”

“So what’s she into? Laurel?”

“Simple, for sure. Anytime they show a ring with loads of crap on it she’s all, like, ‘Gross.’ So definitely a solitaire, or maybe a solitaire plus a couple tiny diamonds on the sides. But not slathered in gaudy diamond frosting, you know?”

“All right. So gold, or…?”

“Have you ever seen Laurel wear gold jewelry?”

He frowned, drawing a blank. “I have no idea.”

Anne shook her head in his periphery. “You’re such a guy.”

“What gave me away?”

“She’s a silver girl, all the way. So that means either white gold or platinum. Whichever your budget can handle.”

“I figured it was most important to get her the biggest diamond I can afford.” He wasn’t rolling in it, but he lived simply and worked hard and had a respectable hunk of savings to his name; you had to when you didn’t boast some cushy gig with a 401K.

“Don’t get anything gigantic,” Anne said. “It has to fit a woman’s frame.”

“Her frame?”

“Oh my God, you’re so lucky I’m here.”

“Clearly.”

“Plus you can get a big diamond, but one with some flaws in it, for the same price as a smaller one that’s closer to perfect.”

“Oh.” Shit, there was more to this than he’d realized. Better to have Anne explain than get taken for a ride by the salesperson. Like the opposite of Flynn taking his sister’s car to the shop for her.

“Personally, I’d say go somewhere in the middle. A little flaw or two is fine. I mean, it’s not like people walk around wearing jewelers’ monocles, right?”

“Right.” A jeweler’s what now?

“And it has to be a conflict-free diamond, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Crickets chirped between his ears.

“What shape, do you think?” Anne talked a mile a minute, but today Flynn welcomed it. It didn’t allow his own nervous mental commentary to get a word in edgewise, even if these questions had him feeling less prepared by the minute.

“Shape? They’re just, like, round, aren’t they?”

“Usually. But there’s loads of other options too. Square and oval and marquis and emerald and radiant—oh, radiant is really classy.”

“Jesus, am I qualified for this? I’ve only got a high school diploma.”

“I’ll hold your gigantic hand. Have you guys talked about marriage much?”

“Not…explicitly,” he said. Not at all, in fact. He’d made the mistake of teasing Laurel about it way back when they’d first been hooking up, and it had weirded her out so much he’d not dared mention the M-word since.