Check Her Out (His Curvy Librarian)

“Oh, please, Prescott,” my father barks. “I understand that you’re going through some kind of guilty phase because of your position in life, but one of these days you’re going to wake up and realize it’s time to come back to work with me where you belong. Claim the legacy that I have created for you.”

“No, I won’t,” I say. It’s an argument we’ve had many times over the last two years, and yet he never seems to hear me. “I appreciate everything you’ve given me, and I know you worked hard for it. But it’s not the life I want. I don’t want a legacy. I want to build something for myself… and I have.”

“So what, Prescott, you’re here to try to make us feel guilty for what we have?” my mother asks, sounding tired.

“No,” I say. “I’m only here for one thing—Grandma’s engagement ring. You told me a long time ago that I could have it when I found the right woman, and that woman is Brooklyn. I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

“What?” My mother looks about two seconds away from having the damn vapors. “Prescott, you can’t be serious! She’s below you!”

I put my hands on my hips, trying to contain myself. I snort and say, “You know, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought I was being crazy because I just met her two days ago, but the only thing you can think about is her socioeconomic status. I think you two should both take a good, long look in the mirror and figure out who’s below whom. Because I may have only known her two days, but I know Brooklyn has a huge heart and a beautiful soul, and she’s way above you in every way that counts.”

With that, I turn and march up the marble staircase to my parents’ master suite. I go into the giant walk-in closet with clothes that haven’t even been worn yet, and key in the combination to the safe where my mother keeps all her most expensive jewelry.

Fortunately, the code is the same as always—although she’s probably calling her financial planner right now, figuring out how to cut me out of the will for all the things I just said. That’s fine—I haven’t taken a dime from my parents since the outreach center opened, and I have no plans to ever take their money again, especially not after the way they treated Brooklyn.

My girl.

My fiancée soon, I hope.

I said I loved her for the first time out loud downstairs, although I’ve spent all of today convincing myself that I’m not crazy for thinking it. And I can’t wait to say it again—to her.

I find my grandmother’s ring in an old ring box, the velvet rubbed away on the corners from age. The ring inside isn’t gaudy or ostentatious like the rest of my mother’s jewelry, and the fact that she bothers to keep it in the safe at all is a hint that despite all her materialism, my mother actually does have a heart buried down under all that money.

This ring is the only item of sentimental rather than monetary value in the whole safe, and that’s exactly why I know Brooklyn will love it.

I make two pit stops—one back at my house to get showered and dressed up, and one at the Baker house to ask Cory and Martha for Brooklyn’s hand in marriage.

And then, feeling more nervous than I expected to, I head for Brooklyn’s place.

11

Brooklyn

I’m in my PJs with a glass of wine in hand when my doorbell rings.

I’ve been off work for a couple of hours and I have to admit, I’m still wallowing a little bit. What Ty told me about Prescott was reassuring, and Nora and Cassidy told me that I’ve got to follow my heart… but I know I’d have a hard time getting involved with someone that Martha and Cory didn’t approve of. So how can Prescott still want me now that his parents have thoroughly rejected me?

All of that is running through my head as I set down my wine glass and pad over to the door in my fuzzy slippers. No clue who’s at my door—a delivery person with a package I forgot about, or maybe Nora dropping in on me unannounced like she loves to do.

But when I pull the door open, I find Prescott.

In a tailored suit. With a bouquet of frangipani just like he brought me before our first date.

He looks so damn good, I nearly forget that I’m in my PJs. Nearly.

“Prescott,” I say, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you, Brooklyn,” he says, “and I wanted to apologize in person for my parents.”

“You apologized the other night,” I point out.

“But I didn’t tell them off right then and there for what they said to you, and I should have,” he says. “Can I come in?”