All this over a fucking rock.

A fucking rock tucked into the pocket of my jeans that would combust and set my pants on fire any second now. A fitting end, considering all the lies I'd told to keep it secret.

My curvy little Lane would forgive me, though. She’d forgiven way stupider shit. Example number one: The whole friends-with-benefits I’d honestly believed would work. It’s hysterical now, looking back on it. I’d actually thought I could take her body without wanting her mind, her wit, her patience, and the rest of her…forever.

Examples number two…and three…on up to about thirty, were the far less pleasant issues with my family. My seriously fucked-up childhood, my still seriously fucked-up mother and stepsister, and, of course, me. A true mess of a man who, due to recent developments, was becoming messier and messier.

So yeah, she’d forgive me…if I ever gathered up enough courage to tell the most amazing woman I’d ever known why I’d been such an inexcusable dumbass lately.

Yep, my current sense of self could be described by America’s favorite seven-letter word. If I remembered correctly, only two other people had ever called me a dumbass. A few minutes later, both of them had taken it back. Well, they would’ve, if my fist hadn't screwed up full use of their jaws.

But that shit was back in the bad old days, before Lane had domesticated me and transformed me into a decent person. Except for every day over the last month, in which I would’ve had to agree with those two dickheads. At least while I anxiously searched for the “perfect” rock. And when I had to decide which metal would keep the “perfect” rock from falling off Lane’s finger. Because, obviously, it had to be the “perfect” metal with exactly the “perfect” amount of swirly shit around it for my perfect woman—no air quotes around that one ’cause it’s a fact.

Then the impressively manipulative jeweler had done the whole “The stone is stunning, but it would look even better with a few slightly smaller diamonds around it. For balance.” For balance. Right. God forbid I give Lane an unbalanced stone. It might remind her of the unbalanced man who’d given it to her. Although, for all I knew, diamonds were happier traveling in packs.

I’m not stupid. Well, I’m not that stupid. I didn’t care about the money—Lane was worth double everything in the store combined—but she was the only one allowed to screw me now.

Unfortunately, the salesman knew how to play to his audience. In my anxiety-induced word vomit, I may have mentioned that Lane was an incredible artist—not with metal and rocks though. Lane was a genius with wood—the only wood I’d ever wrapped my hands around, along with the kind that came from trees. So when the guy wondered aloud if I might prefer to have a simple custom design created by some guy in New York City who was a “true artist,” I caved.

In the spirit of being the biggest dumbass in the jewelry store, I think I said yes to everything. I definitely said yes to the artist in New York City, because opting for a custom design that had to be shipped across the country a couple times meant I could put off the big question for a few more weeks.

Plus, if the “true artist” in New York was anything like the artist he was making the piece for, he'd be obsessively working on it for way longer than any normal human being would have patience for. Gotta love those artists with their freakish perfectionism. They made the rest of us feel sane in comparison.

However, the same couldn’t be said for whoever had made up the rules of engagement. They all deserved to be shot. No one should be able to turn a grown man into a pathetic twit. And no one should force a guy into fucking weeks of shopping for anything other than adult toys and lingerie.

Don’t even get me started on every sap who’s ever posted a YouTube video of their proposal. It’s just not fair. After finally finding a rock, I was supposed to come up with a YouTube-acceptable way to ask her? Way too much pressure. Which was exactly why I’d put it off for so long. My brother had already done it twice—once when he knew it was a terrible idea before they’d even cut the wedding cake. The second time was, without a doubt, the best and smartest thing he’d ever done, other than having me as a brother.

That sweeter, smarter, longer-lasting wedding cake was going to be served in a few days on a French Polynesian island, which made it all the more important I get this proposal shit with Lane done now. Before everyone at Hayden and Andi’s wedding got a chance to ask us fourteen billion more times when it was our turn.

My last excuse collapsed when I’d hung up with the jeweler this morning after hearing the words, “Mr. Bennett, the ring arrived and—”

Said ring had been burning a hole in my pants ever since. A chunk of very expensive coal in a tiny box I couldn’t stop touching. In fact, my hand was shoved so deeply in my pocket, petting that damn velvet to check if it was still there, everyone I passed probably thought I was just another pervert playing with his cock. Gotta love San Francisco—nothing surprised people here.

When Lane had called to ask if I would meet her at our café so we could talk after work, I felt terrible. What if she was so annoyed with me that “talk” meant break up? It would serve me right for being such a dumbass. I’m not even sure I could call myself a man anymore. I’d been completely emasculated by one simple question. Granted, the answer to that question would pretty much set up everything else for the rest of my days, but it wasn’t going to cause my life to end. Right?

It wasn’t, was it?

Dumb. Ass.

No matter how hard I tried to hide my lies and dumbass-like reflexes, Lane had definitely noticed. Last night, I think I hurt her feelings when I yelled, “Are you fucking kidding me?” and threw the remote at the TV. I couldn’t explain my frustration to her, so all she saw was her boyfriend freaking out over a commercial. But, in my defense, what was I supposed to do? It had been a jewelry commercial. Now I knew why the guys looked so damn happy in them, though—they’d made it through the process without killing someone.

So, here we were: Lane looking as beautiful as always, and me, trying like hell not to look like I was jerking off while fully clothed.

Fuck it. I needed to get this over with before I made her hate me. I couldn’t handle this shit any longer. Thankfully, I stopped myself from shoving the box at her while we were in line to place our coffee order. A proposal had to be special, something memorable, something clickable on YouTube.

“I missed a spot,” she said, staring at her fingers.

“Huh?”

She held out her palm. “My glove tore while I was finishing a table this morning. When the varnish dries under my nails, it’s annoying as hell.”

“No glove, no love, babe.”

She showed me her nails. Well, actually, she showed me just one nail…on one finger…right in the middle.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” I said, winking. “I even have an extra glove in my wallet, so…” I had to laugh at her expression—sexy frustration. Thankfully I didn’t say that out loud. It sounded way too much like “sexual frustration,” an expression I prayed I’d never have reason to say out loud.

“Come on, babe. You know I love it when you’re dirty. Just not that kind of dirty. Go wash up. I’ll grab the drinks.”

“Thanks.” She raised up onto her toes and kissed me quickly before heading toward the bathrooms.

While she was gone, I picked up our coffees and took them to our spot in the back of the café. It was where we’d first met, where we’d second met, where we’d gotten to know each other. Where I’d briefly forgotten how much I wanted to fuck her and had actually started caring about who she was. Which meant, in a way, it was where I’d fallen in love with her too.

Lots of good memories in this spot. Huh. Maybe this was the perfect place after all. Sentimental, spontaneous, filled with people who were in too much of a rush to gawk. Perfect.

With frequent glances to make sure she wasn’t coming back yet, I slipped the box from my pocket and stared at the ring for as long as I dared. The artist in New York was worth every penny, maybe even worth all the agony I’d gone through.

Even I had to admit the rock looked gorgeous—big but not grotesquely big, nothing Lane would be embarrassed by. The designer had also come up with another setting the ring could slip into so Lane could wear it as a necklace while she worked. I left that part in the box and looked around for romantic inspiration.

How should I do it? Lane wasn’t crazy about surprises, but surprises made good stories, sometimes even YouTube-acceptable stories. I slipped the ring under her coffee, then centered it so the cup didn’t look like the Leaning Tower of Java. When she lifted it up, she’d see the bling, be surprised, and this hell would be over. Hallelujah.

As soon as I saw her coming back from the bathroom, I leaned back in my chair and tried to act normal.

“All clean now.” She flopped into her chair, setting her bag down next to her. “You can dirty me up later.”

“Promise?” My smile was plastered on, all my nerves and attention focused on what to say when she picked up the cup.

“Yes, but you’ll have to be patient. After this, I should go back to work for a while. The opening of the new lobby is coming up so fast, and I still have to finish the last table before we leave tomorrow.”

The only reason Lane hadn’t figured out what I’d been obsessing over for the last few weeks was because she’d been obsessing over her art installation for months. The owner of a building downtown had commissioned her to build a series of reclaimed wood tables for his new lobby. It was a huge deal with a huge paycheck and a great opportunity to showcase her art. I hadn’t been allowed to see it yet, but I took full credit for all her hard work. After all, supposedly I was her inspiration.

Shit, what if the tables were all shaped like dumbasses? Nah, she’d started the project before I turned into one. Phew.

“Then,” she continued, “while we’re at Hayden’s wedding…” She still hadn’t touched her coffee cup. What was she waiting for? “…the finish will be able to cure”—something, something. I wasn’t really listening—“Once we get back”—something about movers—“over to the building and set them up. It should only take a day or so…”

“Uh-huh.” I hoped she wasn’t saying anything vital because, at some point, I’d forgotten how to understand English.

“…the positioning is perfect, but it’s hard not to worry.”

“Worry, yeah,” I mumbled. “Gotcha.” I tried to keep my eyes off the damn cup, tried to pay attention to what she was saying, but honestly, I couldn't hear her over all the panic in my head. Why hadn't she lifted the fucking thing yet?

“…I’m going to pay the movers with my body,” she said. “A hot quickie with each of them, you know?”

“Sure, makes sense,” I said, nodding like good boyfriends do.

“I need some advice though. Should I tag team them or try doing a double or even triple penetra—?”

“You gonna drink that?” I pointed at her cup—a grande cream-and-sugar with a single shot of decaf espresso floating on top. Her favorite. No idea why she called it coffee.

She looked at me with a raised eyebrow, probably because I’d just cut her off mid-sentence, although it could’ve been a bunch of other reasons, too. But I had way bigger things to worry about. And possibly regret.

I sighed. “Never mind.” This was the worst idea I'd ever had. The best idea now was to figure out a way to get out of it. “It’s probably cold by now.”

I reached for the cup with both hands, one of them sliding along the table so I could scoop the ring up without her seeing it. “I’ll get you another one."

She grabbed the cup, not letting me have it.

“Is it let's-ignore-Laney-day today?” she asked, her forehead all squished up. “Why are you the first and only one celebrating it?”

“I just—” This really couldn't have been going any better. King of poetry and romance right here, especially because I couldn’t form an actual sentence.

Thankfully, she was distracted when someone called her name. Followed by a squeal that, also thankfully, no one but her ex-roommate Hillary could manage.

“Guess who’s getting married!”