Page 51 of Conor
He threads his fingers through mine and leads me to the car. He gave me warning this time, so I already know where we’re going. And for Conor, I’m ready to try again. This is important to him, so I try not to let my nerves get the best of me as he drives us to Sláinte.
The drive is far too short, and when we pull into the parking lot, Conor turns off the ignition, but doesn’t get out of the car. Now he’s the one who looks nervous, and it’s totally freaking me out.
“I have something for you,” he says. “A couple things actually.”
“Oh.” I rasp. “What is it?”
An awkward laugh rumbles from his chest as he taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Chrissakes, this is ridiculous. I’m fumbling like a schoolboy.”
“It’s okay,” I insist. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
Warmth bleeds into his eyes, and it must be infectious because I feel it in my chest too.
“I just want ye to know this wasn’t the way I intended for it to go down. I wanted to give it to ye earlier, but with the moving and everything, there was never a perfect time. You deserve something more romantic, but I’m not very good at that stuff.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black box, and my heart beats wildly in anticipation. Conor doesn’t think he’s romantic, but he has no idea how much that isn’t true. Because when he looks at me with that boyish smile and flips open the box, I couldn’t imagine anything better than this.
“Sorry it’s taken me so long to sort ye out a proper ring, but I wanted it to be just right.”
I examine the vintage diamond ring through bleary eyes, nodding my approval. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s an antique, but if you don’t like it, we can get ye a different one. I just liked the story that came with this.”
“What story?” I ask.
“This ring belonged to a couple who were mad about each other. They came from two different worlds and didn’t have a lick in common. She was a society girl, and he was the son of a farmer with barely two nickels to rub together. Against her family’s protests, they ran off and got married, and then he was sent off to war.”
“What happened to them?” I press. “Did he live?”
“He was captured and presumed dead,” Conor says. “For six years, they told her that was so, but she couldn’t believe it. She never took off the ring. She never gave up hope. And then one day out of the blue, he appeared on their doorstep. They spent the next fifty years together and died within days of each other. She wore the ring for all that time, vowing that as long as she kept it on, he would always come back to her.”
“Wow.” I can’t tell if I’m more moved by the story or the emotion on Conor’s face. “That’s really sweet.”
“We Irish tend to believe in good luck charms, and this will be ours.” He slides the ring onto my finger, and I examine the stone, noting that it’s new. But the original art deco style of the band is untouched.
“I made a few minor changes,” Conor explains. “I hope ye like it.”
“Like it?” I take his hand in mine and squeeze. “I love it. It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me. I don’t even know what to say.”
He offers me a lazy smile. “It was long overdue. I want the world to know ye’re mine, and I’m yours.”
“Oh, God, I need to get you a ring.”
He pulls another box from his pocket and wiggles it between his fingers. “Already got that covered, love. Would ye care to do the honors?”
I open the box and inspect the ring he bought. A simple black titanium band. I couldn’t have picked something better for him myself. I slide it onto his ring finger with some difficulty, considering his huge knuckles, and we both laugh.
“Thank you, Conor. This means so much to me.”
His fingers brush the length of my arm, making me shiver. “Thank you for being my wife. I like to fancy myself the luckiest man on this planet.”
My lips graze against his. “I think we’re both the lucky ones.”
He kisses me, and it’s the kind of kiss that turns my insides all gooey. It’s deep and possessive and intense, a complete symphony of all that Conor is. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of kissing this man. Making out in parked cars or sneaking into dark corners to frantically tear at each other’s clothes. He makes me feel like a teenager, love drunk in the best possible way.
“Shite,” Conor grunts. “Ye got me all worked up.”
He adjusts the erection in his jeans, and I smirk as my fingers drag over his zipper. “You know, there’s a solution for that.”
