One Day Fiance

Caylee smiles widely, seeming bowled over. “Wow, Mom. That’s great.”

“You think so?” Debra asks hesitantly. “You don’t think it’s stupid?”

“Welcome to the new generation, Mom. Everyone goes to therapy now,” Caylee says. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I had a few sessions when I needed help in college, stressing out. And Evan and I did premarital therapy to help us define boundaries and learn to communicate better. Therapy is a good thing.”

Debra straightens as she sits down next to Robert. “Oh, well . . . yeah. I think it’s a good thing too.”

We eat, honestly complimenting Debra on the delicious meal, and somehow, conversation turns to Connor’s grandfather. Robert seems particularly interested to hear how his dad’s old magic tricks, which were apparently not that great to begin with, could’ve possibly helped Connor steal a well-protected piece of art.

“He taught me that sometimes, you have to roll with it. I can’t tell you how many quarters he dropped before he’d pull one from behind my ear. And he’d sell it as my ears being so full that he couldn’t even catch them all. But later, he could do it easily. I learned to practice from him too. The theories he taught me are sound, regardless of a few dropped quarters.”

The memory is a good one, bringing a smile to Connor’s face and even a small one to Robert’s.

“He used to do card tricks when I was a kid, basically play three-card monte with me,” Robert recalls a little wistfully. “This was when he was younger, and his skills . . . well, he could frustrate me all day if he wanted. But eventually, he’d let me win the pot. I’d eat all the candy I won but save the strawberry candies for him because they were his favorites.”

Caylee perks up, smiling. “I remember that. He always had strawberry candy in his pocket.” She pats her chest, right over her heart, and I get a mental image of a miniature Caylee digging in her Granddad’s pocket for sweets every time she saw him.

Connor told me that Robert wasn’t the same after his dad died, and I wonder if a part of that is because nobody talked about him anymore. He’s been living with all this sadness and grief inside and no one to talk to about it. Hopefully, today will be a new beginning for us all, one with open lines of communication.

Over dessert, Connor places his napkin on the table and says, “There is one more thing.”

I look at him in surprise, and wary concern steals the smile Debra’s been sporting all through dinner.

“Uh, what are you talking about? That’s everything.” Connor raises a brow questioningly, and I pale. “Isn’t it? Oh, shit, is there something else I don’t know? It’d better be something good because I’m all out of patience and understanding right now. I’ve got zero fucks left to give, Connor, so choose your next big reveal carefully.”

He smiles, not the least bit scared by my threat, and stands. “Poppy, I met you a few weeks ago and could’ve never predicted what your running into me at that dinner would do to my heart. Or my foot. Those heels of yours left a bruise for days.”

I interrupt, grinning. “You deserved it.” I look to Caylee, Evan, Debra, and Robert, pleading my case. “He did!”

Connor chuckles and drops to one knee. “Are you seriously going to show them the bruise?” I ask. “It’s healed. I know it is because I saw you walking around naked, swinging your dick like a helicopter this morning. And there was no bruise on your foot.”

Connor cocks an eye at me in mock anger. “If my dick is out and you’re looking at my feet, we have a problem.”

I shrug, ignoring the occasional shocked gasp from Debra. “Fair point. But what are you doing down there?”

Caylee gasps, getting it before anyone else does. “Connor, didn’t you already do this?”

“Do what?” I ask, still confused.

Connor smiles and looks around the room. “About that . . . Poppy voluntold me that she was coming to that dinner with me. She was only supposed to be a one-day fiancée. But I want a whole lot more than that. I want her to be my wife forever.”

It hits me, and my cheeks puff up from how big I’m smiling, and my eyes burn from unshed tears of happiness.

“Is that a question?” I ask him, knowing that he never asks things. He’s getting better, but he’s still grumpy and statement based. Questions are like gold coins for him.

But this time, he nods and in a rough voice filled with emotion, he asks, “Poppy Woodstock, will you be my wife?”

I launch myself at him, tackling him to the floor. Thankfully, the rug is soft and breaks our landing as I smother him with kisses. Mwah–mwah–mwah.