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  Instead, I focus on Ty. I find him book two—Speaker for the Dead—and get him signed up for a library card. While I work, I can’t help pumping him for a little information.

  “So, Ty, how long have you been going to the teen center?”

  “Since last year,” he says. “Mr. P did a Madden tournament that brought a bunch of us guys in—not like we have Xbox money of our own—and we stuck around because he’s pretty cool. He’s always coming up with fun stuff to do.”

  “He seems really dedicated,” I say.

  “Totally,” Ty says. “And I heard a rumor he pays for all of it out of his own pocket. I mean, if I had that kind of dough, I’d probably go out and buy a football team, not Madden for a buncha poor kids.”

  I smile. “I bet you’d be more generous than you think.”

  “Maybe,” he says, unconvinced. “Nobody’s as generous as Mr. P, though.”

  I laugh. “Did he pay you to come in here and say that?”

  Ty laughs too. “Nah, I swear. I just wanted that book.”

  I pass Speaker for the Dead to him and he heads out. His words reverberate for a long time after he goes, though.

  Was I judging a book by its cover?

  10

  Prescott

  It practically kills me to wait all day long, but I go back over to my parents’ house the minute I know my father will be home from work in the city. I don’t even knock like I usually do—I just let myself in and find them having cocktails in the formal sitting room.

  “Prescott,” my mother says, surprised. Not nearly as surprised as she will be once I’ve said my piece. “Cognac?”

  “No,” I say. “This isn’t a social call.”

  “Well, I hope you came to apologize for running out on dinner last night,” my father says. “That was—”

  “Completely justified given how you two treated Brooklyn,” I finish for him. “And yes, that is why I’m here, but not to apologize.”

  They’ve both got their eyebrows raised, as if I just slapped them in the face. Good—they need to be woken up.

  “That was completely unacceptable, and Brooklyn left here in tears,” I tell them. “I knew you two were old-money snobs, but I had no idea you could be cruel like that.”

  “Prescott—” my mother tries to object, but I’m not finished.

  I hold up a hand, silencing her. “No. Unless the next words out of your mouth are an apology, I don’t want to hear it. I love Brooklyn, I love my work at the outreach center, and I won’t allow you to make me or anyone I care about feel bad about that.”

  “Oh, please, Prescott,” my father barks. “I understand that you’re going through some kind of guilty phase because of your position in life, but one of these days you’re going to wake up and realize it’s time to come back to work with me where you belong. Claim the legacy that I have created for you.”

  “No, I won’t,” I say. It’s an argument we’ve had many times over the last two years, and yet he never seems to hear me. “I appreciate everything you’ve given me, and I know you worked hard for it. But it’s not the life I want. I don’t want a legacy. I want to build something for myself… and I have.”

  “So what, Prescott, you’re here to try to make us feel guilty for what we have?” my mother asks, sounding tired.

  “No,” I say. “I’m only here for one thing—Grandma’s engagement ring. You told me a long time ago that I could have it when I found the right woman, and that woman is Brooklyn. I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

  “What?” My mother looks about two seconds away from having the damn vapors. “Prescott, you can’t be serious! She’s below you!”

  I put my hands on my hips, trying to contain myself. I snort and say, “You know, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought I was being crazy because I just met her two days ago, but the only thing you can think about is her socioeconomic status. I think you two should both take a good, long look in the mirror and figure out who’s below whom. Because I may have only known her two days, but I know Brooklyn has a huge heart and a beautiful soul, and she’s way above you in every way that counts.”

  With that, I turn and march up the marble staircase to my parents’ master suite. I go into the giant walk-in closet with clothes that haven’t even been worn yet, and key in the combination to the safe where my mother keeps all her most expensive jewelry.

  Fortunately, the code is the same as always—although she’s probably calling her financial planner right now, figuring out how to cut me out of the will for all the things I just said. That’s fine—I haven’t taken a dime from my parents since the outreach center opened, and I have no plans to ever take their money again, especially not after the way they treated Brooklyn.

  My girl.

  My fiancée soon, I hope.

  I said I loved her for the first time out loud downstairs, although I’ve spent all of today convincing myself that I’m not crazy for thinking it. And I can’t wait to say it again—to her.

  I find my grandmother’s ring in an old ring box, the velvet rubbed away on the corners from age. The ring inside isn’t gaudy or ostentatious like the rest of my mother’s jewelry, and the fact that she bothers to keep it in the safe at all is a hint that despite all her materialism, my mother actually does have a heart buried down under all that money.

  This ring is the only item of sentimental rather than monetary value in the whole safe, and that’s exactly why I know Brooklyn will love it.

  I make two pit stops—one back at my house to get showered and dressed up, and one at the Baker house to ask Cory and Martha for Brooklyn’s hand in marriage.

  And then, feeling more nervous than I expected to, I head for Brooklyn’s place.

  11

  Brooklyn

  I’m in my PJs with a glass of wine in hand when my doorbell rings.

  I’ve been off work for a couple of hours and I have to admit, I’m still wallowing a little bit. What Ty told me about Prescott was reassuring, and Nora and Cassidy told me that I’ve got to follow my heart… but I know I’d have a hard time getting involved with someone that Martha and Cory didn’t approve of. So how can Prescott still want me now that his parents have thoroughly rejected me?

  All of that is running through my head as I set down my wine glass and pad over to the door in my fuzzy slippers. No clue who’s at my door—a delivery person with a package I forgot about, or maybe Nora dropping in on me unannounced like she loves to do.

  But when I pull the door open, I find Prescott.

  In a tailored suit. With a bouquet of frangipani just like he brought me before our first date.

  He looks so damn good, I nearly forget that I’m in my PJs. Nearly.

  “Prescott,” I say, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “I missed you, Brooklyn,” he says, “and I wanted to apologize in person for my parents.”

  “You apologized the other night,” I point out.

  “But I didn’t tell them off right then and there for what they said to you, and I should have,” he says. “Can I come in?”

  Butterflies make my stomach quiver at the thought of being alone in my apartment with him. I’m thinking of our night together after the movie, how his lips felt on mine, how his body fit perfectly against my own.

  It’s only been two days but I miss him so much it hurts.

  “Of course,” I say.

  We go into the living room and sit on the couch, where I quickly fold and put away the lap blanket I’ve been burritoing myself in. For a second I wonder if I should excuse myself, slip into something a bit less comfortable, but hey, this is the real Brooklyn Hart. The girl who grew up in a trailer park with parents who loved her, who thinks the people in her life are far more valuable than anything money could buy, who occasionally spends her evenings in baggy fleece pajama bottoms.

  Take her or leave her.

  Prescott gives me the flowers, then says, “I want you to know that I went back over to my parents’ house this
afternoon and set them straight. I told them that you’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met, and that money’s got nothing to do with it. I told them that they can either accept you with open arms or they’ll have nothing to do with either of our lives… and I told them that I am madly, deeply in love with you.”

  I’ve never had a take-your-breath-away moment before—I always thought it was something that people like Martha make up for fictional romantic moments. But I honestly can’t catch my breath right now.

  “You do?”

  He nods, and then all of a sudden, I’m not only breathing again, I’m sobbing. Prescott furrows his brow, then pulls me into a fierce hug. “What’s wrong?”

  “I love you too,” I tell him.

  I can feel his soft laugh rumbling in his chest as I rest against him. He tilts my head up to look at him. “And that’s a problem?”

  “I looked you up online,” I confess, “after dinner with your parents. I saw your Instagram.”

  Prescott’s cheeks color. “Damn.”

  “I don’t know how I could ever hope to compete with yachts and exotic trips… and those models you hang out with,” I say, self-conscious of my curves in a way that I’m not normally. “I just keep thinking about what your dad said, about living up to the Beaufont name.” I smile even though it hurts and add, “You’re going to get bored with me eventually.”

  “Hell no, I won’t,” he says, practically growls the words. “Brooklyn, look at me.”

  I do. I gaze into those smoldering eyes and the butterflies in my stomach announce themselves again—I can’t even look at him without feeling it in my core, my heart, my everything. That’s why this is breaking my heart so completely.

  But then…

  “I should have told you about my history sooner,” he says. “I didn’t want you to hear the name Beaufont and see some spoiled rich asshole… especially because that’s who I used to be. That’s not me anymore, but I keep my old Instagram account just to remind myself how entitled I used to be, and how much good I can do with what I have instead.”

  A tiny wave of relief is starting to build within me. All of this is ringing true, sounding so much more like the version of Prescott that I know, that Ty told me about, than the version his parents think he is.

  “I went to Jamaica on vacation two years ago,” he continues. “I was just there to party, to live my self-absorbed life, but one day I managed to wander out of the resorts and the tourist traps and wound up in the real Jamaica, where the residents live. I saw poverty, hunger, kids who didn’t have access to education, teenagers who were having kids instead of being kids. And I hate to admit that it was the first time in my life that I really opened my eyes and looked beyond myself.”

  Two years ago… I think about the timestamps on his latest Instagram posts, and the year the teen outreach center opened. “You came right home and started doing something about the poverty in your own community,” I marvel. “That’s amazing.”

  “With the privilege and wealth I was born into, it’s honestly the least I could do,” he says. “As you heard the other night at dinner, my parents don’t agree with my decision and they think it’s some kind of phase, but I promise you, I was changed on that Jamaica trip.”

  “I believe you,” I say. “I’ve only known you a short time, but I’ve known your heart from the beginning.”

  Now it’s Prescott’s turn to heave a sigh of relief. “And you don’t think less of me for my past?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “What you’re doing now is so much more important—and you’re really changing lives.”

  I tell him about Ty coming into the library for the next Ender book, and he breaks into a grin. Then he takes both of my hands in his and says, “There’s one other thing I came here tonight to do.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask, arching an eyebrow, my lips curling into a coy smile.

  He laughs. “Well, that too… but first…”

  He slides off the couch, dropping to one knee with my hands still clasped in his own.

  “Prescott…” There goes my breath again. “What are you doing?”

  “Brooklyn, I knew from the first moment I saw you that you were incredible, unique, beautiful, a story I wanted to read again and again,” he says, and I can feel tears welling in my eyes—happy ones this time. “My parents’ house wasn’t the only place I went this afternoon. I also went to the Bakers’ house.”

  “You did?” I furrow my brow.

  “Yes. I asked Cory and Martha for their blessing to propose to you.”

  “Really?” I’m reduced to one and two-word answers, feeling lightheaded in the best way.

  “They’re your found family, aren’t they?” He asks, and I nod, the first tears spilling down my cheeks.

  “I can’t believe you did that for me,” I say, overwhelmed.

  “Brooklyn Hart, I love you,” Prescott says, and lets go of one of my hands to retrieve a small jewelry box from his jacket pocket. He opens it, revealing a white gold engagement ring with intricate engravings in the band and a delicate solitaire diamond. “Will you be my family?”

  “Oh, Prescott,” I breathe, “I would love to.”

  He slides the ring onto my finger, and smiles when we find that it’s a perfect fit. I throw my arms around him and drag him back up onto the couch, wrapping my pajamaed thighs around him.

  My man. My family.

  Forever.

  Epilogue 1

  Prescott

  One month later…

  There are plenty of things that money can’t buy, but I’m happy that my savings from when I worked for my dad have allowed me to give Brooklyn the wedding of her dreams, and make it all come together in just over a month.

  As soon as she said yes, I knew I didn’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary to call her my wife, to start our life together, so the last few weeks have been a flurry of activity.

  We booked the one-screen theater where we had our first date for our wedding venue. One of Brooklyn’s best friends is providing all the flowers, by way of her father-in-law’s elaborate garden. And as soon as the teens at the outreach center found out about the wedding, they jumped right on board helping us make table arrangements, favors, and anything else we needed.

  I’m at the theater now, a few hours before the ceremony, directing a small army of volunteers as we set everything up and make the place look exactly how Brooklyn dreamed it would.

  Ty and Jaxon are arranging tables in the spacious area at the back of the room, and my parents have actually rolled up their sleeves to help out. This is already the best day of my life—the day I get to marry the woman of my dreams—but if anything could have made it better, it would be the totally unexpected transformation my parents have made over the past month.

  After I laid down the law that day, they realized how awful they’d been to Brooklyn and made a point of apologizing to her. If there’s anything rich old-money people value more than their cash, it’s propriety, and they’ve been perfectly polite to her ever since.

  But more than that, they’ve also genuinely accepted her, and finally took the time to learn about my work. They’ve met my teens over the course of the wedding planning, and they’re even talking about taking Jaxon in as foster parents since he’s been bouncing around from place to place for quite a while.

  I told Brooklyn the other night it’s like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but she’s just happy for Jaxon. Happy for us. And so am I.

  I can hardly wait to see her walking down the aisle toward me. We’re getting married on the small stage in front of the movie screen, and I know without a doubt she’ll be more beautiful than Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, or any other starlet who’s ever graced this screen.

  The ceremony is perfect. Brooklyn looks like a classic movie star in a vintage wedding dress, her blonde hair transformed into bouncy ringlets and my grandmother’s engagement ring sparkling on her finger.

  Cory walks her down the aisle. No
ra and Cassidy are her bridesmaids. I’ve got my own best friends—the ones who supported me when I opened the outreach center—standing beside me, and the most beautiful woman in the world right in front of me.

  Afterward, the back of the theater is transformed into a reception space with drinks and dancing and romantic old movies playing silently on the screen behind us.

  Brooklyn doesn’t stop smiling from the moment she walks down the aisle to when I finally get her all to myself in the honeymoon suite of Golden Creek’s historic hotel down the street.

  “Was it everything you imagined?” I ask when we’re finally alone, pulling her into my arms and turning her in slow circles, dancing to music that exists only in our heads.

  “More,” she says. “It was perfect.”

  “And it’s only the beginning,” I say. “We’ve got the rest of our lives to write our story together.”

  I’ve got my hands on her hips and she’s swaying slightly, brushing herself against me, making me hard and hungry in an urgent way. She smiles when she feels my cock rigid against her thighs. “We should start tonight,” she says, one hand sliding down the front of my pants, teasing me.

  I groan. “That sounds like a good idea. What did you have in mind?”

  “Well,” she says, biting her lip, “I love our story the way it is now, but what do you say we make a sequel?”

  “A sequel…” Her smile falters for a second but I rush to reassure her. “I can’t wait to start a family with you, Brooklyn.”

  “Really?”

  I nod. “I want a house full of kids, laughter, love.”

  “That’s exactly what I want,” she beams. “A big old farmhouse just like the Bakers’, cozy and homey, with more than enough love to go around.”

  “I’ve got some love for you right now,” I say, my hands gliding up the antique lace on the bodice of her dress. I cup her breasts and she lets out a moan, her eyes fluttering shut.