Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
So many things wrong, so why do those words feel so right?
Marry me.
He didn't ask.
It's not a question.
He knows.
He fucking knows me.
My voice betrays me when I try to speak. My lips part, but nothing comes out besides a shaky exhale. Naz stares at me, a smile slowly spreading across his face, flashing those deep dimples. He holds the ring out, cocking an eyebrow.
I extend my hand across the table, trembling as he slips it on my finger.
I let out a squeak before stammering incoherently, but my words are cut off when he stands and leans across the table, silencing me with a kiss. I kiss him back as he lets go of my hands, and I reach up, wrapping my arms around his neck. It's a fiery kiss, full of all of Naz's passion. It vibrates through my body, throttling my soul, his lips, and skin, and words forever altering me.
How could I ever deny something so all consuming? How could I say no to someone who means so much to me? It's crazy, and stupid, and utterly overwhelming, but how will I ever fly if I'm too terrified to take the first leap?
"I will," I whisper against his mouth. "I'll marry you."
The air is electric.
I can feel it buzzing along my skin, the hair on my arms sticking straight up as the current flows through my body. Every centimeter of me tingles.
The arena is loud… so loud I can hardly hear myself think. Thousands upon thousands of people cram the vast room, packed together in seats, screaming and stomping. The noise seems to pound through my skull, fueling the electricity. It's pandemonium.
Naz leads me straight to the front row, surrounding a large boxing ring. As soon as we get there, I spot the two empty seats in the middle, most of the row filled with familiar faces. Naz ushers me to one, and I nervously sit down beside the girl I'd met last night—Brandy. She's leaning against Raymond, his arm draped around her, as he eyes us curiously, gaze shifting from me to Naz. "Vitale."
"Ray."
Raymond's eyes drift back to me once more, meeting mine, before scanning me. His gaze settles straight on the ring on my finger, like he knew to look for it. A laugh bursts from him as he shakes his head. "You did it."
"Yes," Naz says. "Just a bit ago."
"Did what?" Brandy asks. "What happened?"
Raymond motions toward my hand, and I slip it onto the seat beside me, out of view, but I'm not fast enough. Brandy's eyes widen as she snatches ahold of my hand, holding it up. "No fucking way! You got engaged?"
I can feel the heat rushing to my face. The entire row seems to silence as a dozen sets of eyes strain to look our way.
"We did," Naz says.
The silence is broken by quiet murmurs, a few congratulations, but even more shock. Brandy clutches my hand tightly, admiring the ring in the light, as male laughter cuts through the air. Naz tenses at the sound as it echoes from the guy who rubbed him the wrong way last night.
"Never thought I'd see the day," the guy says. "Vitale tying the knot again."
My expression falls at those words.
Vitale tying the knot again.
Again.
The others fall silent once more, looking away. I turn to Naz, confused, and see he's staring straight ahead at the ring, not a hint of emotion on his face. He's a stone cold statue. It's like he hadn't heard… he's here, but he's gone.
"Strike three," Raymond mutters, the words barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "You're out."
Naz slouches back in his seat after a moment, throwing his arm over my shoulder and pulling me toward him. I have a million questions (like what the fuck did he mean by again?) but I know now's not the time to ask that. Naz presses a kiss to the top of my head and says not a word as the arena erupts in chaos.
I don't know what's going on—who's who or what's what—but everyone around us is immersed in our surroundings. Two men make their way to the ring, music blaring as people scream. One's in blue shorts, the other in red, with names I can't pronounce and faces I don't recognize.
The brutality right from the ding of the bell is alarming. I sit still in my seat, in Naz's arms, as the men in the ring ferociously pound on each other, round after round, very little letting up. We're so close I can see the blood, sweat, and tears, hear the sickening blows, the grunts and pants and cries. It's barbaric.
I'm appalled.
A quick glance at Naz tells me he's enthralled.
He watches the fight with gross fascination. The others around us cheer and jeer, screaming and jumping up out of their seats, but Naz just sits there, watching attentively, his thumb absently stroking my arm.
The fighters seem to be equally matched as they go toe-to-toe. Naz squeezes me tighter to him after a few rounds. "Who are you pulling for?"
"Blue shorts guy."
"Blue shorts guy," he echoes with a laugh. "Is there a reason?"
There is, but I'm not going to admit it. The guy with the blue shorts has a design shaved into his hair on the side of his head. It's fascinating.
Instead, I shrug. I don't really care who wins.
The fight goes on and on. Every punch sends the crowd reeling. I hear their frenzied yells, feel it vibrating the floor beneath my feet, rocking the air around me. Naz doesn't say anything else, watching, his expression darkening as he stares into the ring. During the last round, the room erupts in commotion when red shorts hits blue so hard I hear the crack and feel the thump as he hits the ground.
He's out cold.
It's over. Half the arena cheers, while a low thrum of boos seems to underlay the celebration. Naz finally pulls his eyes away from the ring as I frown. "Guess red shorts won."
"Guess so," he says. "Good thing, too."