Camera Shy (Lessons in Love, #1)(2)

There is most definitely a hidden surprise in this slice of cake.

“Would you like me to bring out the staff to sing?”

I open my mouth, but Mason answers for me. “Please God, no.” He embarrasses so easily, but I don’t mind the singing. It’s fun and silly. These days we’ve hardly had time for fun and silly. Our business together is booming, which means we’re working nearly fourteen-hour days. My birthday celebration dinner is the first time we’ve gotten dressed up and gone out in months. Hell, I think tonight is worth singing about.

Our waitress lights my single pink candle and flashes me one more genuine smile. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Damn.” Mason lets out a whisper of a chuckle as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Did we order a slice or a whole damn cake?” The rich triple-fudge frosting matches the hue of his irises and the dense devil’s food cake is the same color as his furrowed brows.

With a devious smile, and much to Mason’s horror, I dive in with both of my forefingers, using them as chopsticks as I massacre the dessert.

Searching… Where the hell is it?

Leave it to Mason to do something tacky as all hell like hiding an engagement ring in a slice of birthday cake.

Thirty. I’m freaking thirty years old today. The moment is here and that damn ring better be somewhere in this massive piece of chocolatey goodness.

I found the ring about six months ago in our upstairs closet, hardly hidden. It was careless of Mason, really. We’ve been dating for over four years. We’ve lived together for two. He should be well aware by now that once the winter weather hits, I am religious about folding my summer tank tops and flowy skirts into tidy, color-coordinated piles and stacking them neatly on the top shelf of the closet. Of course I noticed the lonely ring box on the top shelf. He probably tossed it up there in a hurry to hide it, unaware that when someone’s standing on a small step stool, eye level with the highest shelf, the tufted black jewelry box is impossible to miss.

I’m a good girlfriend, though. I didn’t even peek. Sliding the box about a foot to the left, I went about my business and pretended I didn’t notice. I’ve never rushed Mason. It took him exactly ten dates before he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. We waited an entire year before he introduced me to his family. Another year after that we moved in together. Mason is slow and steady like a turtle. My reliable, loving, sweet turtle whose last name I can’t wait to share. I can be patient for him…

Or, at least that’s what I told myself six months ago.

I didn’t expect him to propose at his parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary reception…although I’d hoped. It was such a beautiful night. It was a tad chilly on the California beach in October. Mason draped his suit coat over me like the gentleman he is. We all sat barefoot on the beach as we watched his parents dance right at twilight, listening to the low hiss of the waves crashing against the tide. It would’ve been the perfect time to tell me that it’s exactly what he wanted for us in forty-some years.

But the night came and went. I get it. It was his parents’ night, not ours.

Then there was Thanksgiving—okay, I didn’t have high hopes for that one. We both looked like potbellied pigs after three Thanksgiving dinners—his parents, my mom, and my dad’s family. I was so swollen from the sodium and sugar-induced coma, he would’ve had extreme difficulty sliding a ring on my finger. It was not exactly romantic.

Christmas was—again—hectic. Three separate families crammed into one day. Once again, it was a no-go on the proposal. On New Year’s Eve, I fell asleep early. I was so certain he was going to pop the question that in my giddy delight, I knocked back an entire bottle of champagne and passed out in Mason’s lap by ten o’clock. I kicked myself for weeks after, wondering if I foiled his big plans.

Valentine’s Day was another bust. The evening started wonderfully. He bought me the most beautiful flowers and his card nearly had me in tears. We were in the car, on the way to the Italian restaurant to make our seven o’clock reservation, when some idiot riding our ass hit us from behind. We were okay, but Mason’s bumper and right taillight were destroyed. The airbags deployed, meaning we were all but urged to go to the emergency room as a precaution. Needless to say, our moods, as well as our evening, were ruined.

Since then, it’s been quiet. About once a week, I grab my little step stool and check the top of the closet, hoping the box has moved. It hadn’t budged. It lay in the same spot to the left of my neat piles of clothes…

Until tonight.

Oh, you bet your ass I checked before tonight. My thirtieth birthday. As of eight o’clock this morning, the ring box was removed from the closet, which is why I wore my classiest black dress with the slit up to my knee, was extra thorough curling my hair, and spent an obnoxious amount of time on my smoky eye makeup. I could’ve given Thomas Kinkaid a run for his money the way I painted on light and shadows, contouring and highlighting my round face into the angles of a sleek antelope.

Tonight is my goddamn night.

And I will take a picture to document this monumental moment. I swear. Yes, I’m camera-shy. Yes, I duck and run anytime someone pulls out the selfie stick. I’m comfortable in my body, but I’m not exactly proud of it. I’m healthy. I’m just not a model. Let the beautiful people be beautiful. I’ll cheer them on from the sidelines. I don’t need to be a trophy…I’m treasured…by this man.