If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

The mantra is ingrained in my DNA. Hunters don’t quit, we don’t back down, and we sure as hell don’t let failure get in our way.

Failure is just another step on the road to eventual success. My dad worships at the church of Henry Ford, the man who tanked two auto companies before taking the world by storm with his Model T, and he made sure his sons all got the message: don’t give up. Don’t doubt yourself. And when a dream’s burning a hole inside you, don’t stop until you make your dream a reality.

I’m not easily discouraged, and I’m prepared to attack a problem from a different angle. But there are some things you want to get right the first time.

Things like proposing to the woman you love…

“You’ve got this,” I mutter as I ease away from the wall at the back of the bookstore and take my place at the end of the line of people waiting to get their book signed.

After Jordan’s public confession nine months ago—and subsequent six week stay in a prison in Centinela when the state decided to press charges—Carrie’s come back stronger than ever. Her fans have rallied around her and there are far more adults here than I thought there would be. I expected a certain number of parents along to chaperone their kids, but the crowd is eighty percent eighteen and over, which makes this more anxiety-provoking than I thought it would be. Making a spectacle in front of a couple dozen kids who probably won’t be paying attention—grown-ups are boring to children, something my nephews taught me long ago—is one thing. Ripping my heart out and offering it to Carrie in front of witnesses who might notice what I’m doing or—God forbid—Instagram it, is something else entirely.

Not too late to abort the mission, the inner voice warns. You could head out the back way and wait for her in the parking lot like you said you would. She never has to know you were in here.

Instead, I stay where I am, shuffling forward as the line advances.

I worked for hours on the book clutched tight in my hand, and I’m not going to come up with a more romantic way to ask the question burning inside of me. Besides, I promised Carrie no more running, and I intend to keep that promise—today and every day that I’m lucky enough to call her mine.

Hopefully, that will be something close to forever.

I never imagined I’d be one of those guys desperate to get down on one knee, but Carrie’s already so much a part of me I can hardly remember what my life was like without her. She fits into my family like she was meant to be in our lives all along, and both my parents and all my brothers adore her. We live together, play together, take our two beautiful nieces to the park together, and then go home and celebrate the fact that we have no small people depending on us to feed or diaper them and are still free to do filthy things to each other all night long.

But lately, we’ve also spent some time whispering softly in the fort of silence, wondering what it might be like to have a Hunter-Haverford of our own someday.

Maybe a day not too far from this day…

She’s going to say yes.

I know she will. She makes me feel loved every fucking day, and I know there’s nowhere else she wants to be than right here, sharing her life with me.

So why am I suddenly sweating?

By the time Carrie’s blond and purple curls come into view, my palms are so slick I have to keep swapping the book from hand to hand to covertly wipe them on my jeans. And by the time I’m three people away from her table, my heart is punching a hole in my chest, my throat is locked tight, and I can’t remember a single thing I planned to say.

Shit!

I had it all planned, the perfect words. I wrote them out ahead of time and read them over and over again, knowing I’m not the kind who can be trusted to whip up something pitch-perfect on the spur of the moment.

Apparently, I’m also not the kind of person who can remember shit when he’s really nervous. You really do learn something new every day.

But it’s too late to put this new intelligence to practical use. I’m here, stepping up to the table as a mother and her preteen daughter move to the side, watching my girl’s face light up when she sees me.

As soon as my eyes meet Carrie’s, I feel like the only person in the room, because this incredible woman is smiling just for me. My heartbeat slows, my throat relaxes, and when I hand over the book, my arm only shakes the tiniest bit. “Would you sign my copy, Miss Haverford?”

Her dimples pop. “Of course, Mr. Hunter. Though you didn’t have to buy one, you know. I would have given you a copy free of charge. It’s one of the perks of being my sexy boyfriend.”

“I like those perks.” I fight to keep my expression neutral as she opens the book. “But I wanted to support the author.”

“That’s very sweet of…” Her words trail off as she glances down, discovering the hidden compartment I carved in the pages of an old dictionary the same size as her book before dressing it in the latest Kingdom of Charm and Bone dust jacket. She laughs as she pulls the small wooden box from the hole in the pages and looks up at me, eyes dancing. “And what is this?”

“Read it.” I nod toward the box.

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, but clearly enjoying the surprise, she glances down, reading aloud the inscription etched into the wood. “Some stories shouldn’t have an end. Like love stories…”

Her breath catches, and as she opens the box—slowly, carefully—I drop to one knee. I’m dimly aware of some shocked coos and squeals from behind me, but I only have eyes for Carrie. I never want to forget the look of wonder on her face, the happy tears that fill her eyes, or the way her smile bursts across her face, so dazzling I fall deeper in love with her on the spot.

“Is this for real?” She laughs, blinking fast as she swipes fingers beneath her eyes.

“As real as the heart attack I almost had waiting in line to give you that ring,” I say, reaching to take her hand in mine. “I don’t want this story to end, Trouble. I don’t ever want to stop making memories and wishes and plans and magic with you.”

Her face almost crumples, but she regains control with a sharp inhale. “Oh man, me too.”

“So that’s a yes?” I ask, shocked to find my own eyes beginning to sting.

“You haven’t asked me yet,” she says, her laughter echoed by the book lovers looking on.

“Sh-shoot,” I say, editing myself just in time. I laugh and take a breath, letting the words come from the heart. “Will you marry me, Carrie Haverford? And write this love story with me for a really, really long time?”

“Yes,” she whispers, eyes shining. “I will.”

Not wanting to look away from her for even a second, I fumble for the ring. It takes an extra moment or two, but I finally pluck it free and slide it onto her finger.

Cheers erupt from the crowd as Carrie stands up, sliding across the top of the table into my arms. Her wrists loop around my neck and we kiss, soft and sweet and appropriately PG, but some kid from the back of the room still cries, “Ew, gross!” making everyone laugh.

Carrie and I pull apart, smiling too hard to keep kissing.

But that’s okay. There will be time for kissing later. A good forty or fifty years if we’re lucky.

“Will you still ride on the back of my bike when we’re seventy?” I ask later, as Carrie swings onto the seat behind me.

“Totally.” She grins. “So, what do we do first? Go home and celebrate in bed? Or call the family and tell them the news?”

“Bed,” we answer at the same time, making her laugh. And she’s so cute I can’t help kissing her again, one more long, slow, sultry kiss to tide me over until we’re home and I can have her every way I want her.

Every way she wants me. Every way we fit together so perfectly it’s hard to believe I ever doubted there was someone out there who would have room in her heart for all of me—my strengths and weaknesses, my sharp edges and soft spots, my fearlessness and secret doubts, and everything in between.

---

But she does, and, standing in front of Father Pete six months later, at the edge of that windswept cliff where I first started falling hard for this woman, I have no doubt she always will.

“And do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” Father Pete asks, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the surf and the rush of the breeze.

“I do,” Carrie says with a smile, her cheeks pink from the chill.

It’s only fifty degrees this October Saturday on the coast, but Carrie and I didn’t want to wait any longer to seal the deal. And as far as I’m concerned, this moment is as perfect as any ever will be. In a long-sleeved white wedding dress made of antique lace, purple combat boots, and her hair pulled up in clips made of driftwood and sea glass, she is…stunning.

Breathtaking. So beautiful that when I’m finally given permission to kiss my bride, I can’t resist lifting her off her feet in a bear hug and kissing her like I mean it.

But the kids here are too young to think kissing is gross, and our family and friends simply hoot and applaud, egging us on.

After pictures, in which the wedding party is grinning and windswept, we pile into our cars and caravan up the coast to the dive bar we’ve rented out for our reception, Carrie and I leading the way in our wedding present to each other, the big yellow Cadillac we’ve had our eye on since two summer’s ago, with a “Just Married” sign tied to the back. Hours later, after we’ve visited with family and friends, cut the cake, and cranked up the jukebox, we leave her bouquet on the bar with a sign that says “Free to a Good Home,” and slip out the back door, trusting fate will get it to the person who needs it.

While the people we love party on, we go cruising on the back roads until we find the perfect place for some wedding night parking under the stars. And it is perfect, wild and sweet, just like my bride, and as we lie together after, I can’t help asking, “Is it wrong to be this excited about locking down your pussy for life?”

She hums in amusement. “Is it wrong that I want to knit your dick a little sweater as thanks for all the good times he gives me?”

“Oh, he’d like a sweater.” I hug her closer, kissing the top of her head as we snuggle under the fleece blanket. “A pink one like you made for Mercy.”

Carrie snorts and squeezes my thigh. “Okay. I’ll do that. With sparkles and everything.”

“You’re good to him. And to me.”

She looks up at me, eyes shining in the moonlight. “And I always will be, baby.”

“Me, too,” I promise, never having meant any words more. Except maybe these, “Can I take you home and carry you over the threshold now, Mrs. Hunter?”

“Yes, please.”

So I do. I carry her through the door, up the stairs, and straight to my bed where we stay for a very, very long time.