the recliner, and refilled Micah’s glass of water.
“Hey,” Micah said when Ty came back into the living room. He lifted his head and smiled lazily. “Thanks for taking care of me. Sorry for being crabby.”
With a fond smile, Ty sat down on the cushion near Micah’s head. He threaded his fingers through Micah’s dark hair, making a face at the damp strands.
“It’s okay. I know how much you wanted to win today.”
“Yeah,” Micah said, snuggling closer awkwardly. “I love you, you know. Even though you totally quoted a nineteen eighties country song.”
“Back at you, ‘Skip to My Lou.’”
Micah laughed and buried his face in the pillow.
They settled in together to watch one of the cheesy holiday movies on Lifetime, and Ty did his best to ignore the ring burning a hole in his pocket.
T Y WAS fairly certain he wasn’t the first person to be thwarted by an unexpected ankle injury. It had to have happened before. Right?
So what if his first attempt at proposing was an absolute bust, and he had to spend the rest of the afternoon squirming on the couch until he had a chance to deposit the ring back in the sock drawer. It was okay because he was undeterred. Christmas was still twenty-two days away, and he had plenty of time to pop the question.
On reflection, maybe doing so on the ice after one of Micah’s amateur hockey games wasn’t the most romantic of ideas. Was that really what he wanted to tell their kids one day? That he got down on one knee while their dad was sweaty and covered in hockey gear? No.
However, telling them it happened over a very romantic dinner in which Ty prepared everything himself and there was candlelight and wine was another matter. That would be an excellent story. He’d leave out the enthusiastic sex they were sure to have after because he wasn’t going to traumatize them. Well, not until they were older.
Ty spread out the tablecloth, smoothing down the wrinkles. He adjusted the centerpiece and arranged the long candles. The oven dinged, and he rushed into the kitchen to pull out the expertly stuffed manicotti, Micah’s favorite. The delicious smell wafted throughout the apartment, and Ty reveled in a flash of pride at his accomplishment.
He took stock.
Salad.
Check.
Garlic Bread.
Check.
Tiramisu.
Check.
Ring in his pocket.
Check.
He glanced at the clock and smiled. He had thirty minutes to get showered, dressed, and ready for Micah to walk in the door from work.
Yes, this was going to be perfect. Much better than some unromantic hockey proposal.
Giddy with excitement, Ty’s middle fluttered as he decidedly did not skip toward the bedroom—he was a grown man, after all—but it was a near thing. Well, maybe a few steps were lighter than normal, that was, until he heard the sharp rap at the door.
Ty wasn’t expecting anyone. He didn’t order flowers, which in hindsight might have been a good idea, and he honestly didn’t know who would show up at their apartment on a random Thursday.
He peeked through the spy hole, and oh.
“Bronwyn?” he asked when he opened the door, eyebrows raised. “What are you doing here?”
Micah’s younger sister stood on the other side, looking more disheveled than normal—her hair windswept, her scarf trailing behind her, her jeans muddied at the hem. The distinct smell of city bus combined with the Metro wafted in with her, and coupled with the frown and her appearance, she radiated a mixture of “bad decision” and “despair.”
Ty had enough time to register Bronwyn had been crying—her big blue eyes were bloodshot and ringed with smudged eyeliner—before she launched herself at him and he ended up with a distraught teenager clinging to his torso, her face buried in his chest.
“I’m going to fail,” she sobbed. “I’m going to flunk out of college and have to work as a waitress the rest of my life. And I hate taking orders.”
Stunned, Ty stood there as his shirt slowly became soaked with the
“Hey,” Micah said when Ty came back into the living room. He lifted his head and smiled lazily. “Thanks for taking care of me. Sorry for being crabby.”
With a fond smile, Ty sat down on the cushion near Micah’s head. He threaded his fingers through Micah’s dark hair, making a face at the damp strands.
“It’s okay. I know how much you wanted to win today.”
“Yeah,” Micah said, snuggling closer awkwardly. “I love you, you know. Even though you totally quoted a nineteen eighties country song.”
“Back at you, ‘Skip to My Lou.’”
Micah laughed and buried his face in the pillow.
They settled in together to watch one of the cheesy holiday movies on Lifetime, and Ty did his best to ignore the ring burning a hole in his pocket.
T Y WAS fairly certain he wasn’t the first person to be thwarted by an unexpected ankle injury. It had to have happened before. Right?
So what if his first attempt at proposing was an absolute bust, and he had to spend the rest of the afternoon squirming on the couch until he had a chance to deposit the ring back in the sock drawer. It was okay because he was undeterred. Christmas was still twenty-two days away, and he had plenty of time to pop the question.
On reflection, maybe doing so on the ice after one of Micah’s amateur hockey games wasn’t the most romantic of ideas. Was that really what he wanted to tell their kids one day? That he got down on one knee while their dad was sweaty and covered in hockey gear? No.
However, telling them it happened over a very romantic dinner in which Ty prepared everything himself and there was candlelight and wine was another matter. That would be an excellent story. He’d leave out the enthusiastic sex they were sure to have after because he wasn’t going to traumatize them. Well, not until they were older.
Ty spread out the tablecloth, smoothing down the wrinkles. He adjusted the centerpiece and arranged the long candles. The oven dinged, and he rushed into the kitchen to pull out the expertly stuffed manicotti, Micah’s favorite. The delicious smell wafted throughout the apartment, and Ty reveled in a flash of pride at his accomplishment.
He took stock.
Salad.
Check.
Garlic Bread.
Check.
Tiramisu.
Check.
Ring in his pocket.
Check.
He glanced at the clock and smiled. He had thirty minutes to get showered, dressed, and ready for Micah to walk in the door from work.
Yes, this was going to be perfect. Much better than some unromantic hockey proposal.
Giddy with excitement, Ty’s middle fluttered as he decidedly did not skip toward the bedroom—he was a grown man, after all—but it was a near thing. Well, maybe a few steps were lighter than normal, that was, until he heard the sharp rap at the door.
Ty wasn’t expecting anyone. He didn’t order flowers, which in hindsight might have been a good idea, and he honestly didn’t know who would show up at their apartment on a random Thursday.
He peeked through the spy hole, and oh.
“Bronwyn?” he asked when he opened the door, eyebrows raised. “What are you doing here?”
Micah’s younger sister stood on the other side, looking more disheveled than normal—her hair windswept, her scarf trailing behind her, her jeans muddied at the hem. The distinct smell of city bus combined with the Metro wafted in with her, and coupled with the frown and her appearance, she radiated a mixture of “bad decision” and “despair.”
Ty had enough time to register Bronwyn had been crying—her big blue eyes were bloodshot and ringed with smudged eyeliner—before she launched herself at him and he ended up with a distraught teenager clinging to his torso, her face buried in his chest.
“I’m going to fail,” she sobbed. “I’m going to flunk out of college and have to work as a waitress the rest of my life. And I hate taking orders.”
Stunned, Ty stood there as his shirt slowly became soaked with the
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