Broken Rules

Epilogue

One year later

"How about 'Drunk driver fails blow job test'?"

"No."

"Okay," I respond, humming as I think. "What about this? 'Man says: failed sobriety tests because he kissed 'drunk chick'?"

Wells looks down at me, his lips pressed together as if he's attempting to suppress a smile, as we stroll down one of the paths in Central Park. "That didn't even happen."

"Technicalities, Wells. Those are two really great headlines."

"Juniper, the article is about new cop cars. No one was drunk, and there certainly were no blow jobs given to anyone."

"It's all pretty much the same thing," I shrug, sipping my hazelnut Americano. "And someone definitely was given a blow job," I mumble, smiling into my cup.

He shoots me a look, huffing a laugh as he wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in, and brushes a kiss on my head. "This is why you're a better author than a journalist."

"I don't know if 'better' is really the right term, Wells. I think 'average' is more accurate."

"Juniper," he says, coming to a halt and looking down at me. I tilt my eye up to him, a little confused as to why we've stopped. "Your very first published book almost made it into The New York Times bestsellers list. You're exceptional."

He's not entirely wrong, except for the exceptional part. My book, 'Better as Friends', did almost make it into The New York Times bestseller list, but I credit it all to Ellis for posting about it around a hundred times to her 1.2 million followers on Instagram. Otherwise, I don't think I would have gotten that close. I didn't ask her either; she just kept posting about it. And honestly, it became a little embarrassing.

Wells had finally talked me to send my book to his ex-fiancée, Emilia. Despite my initial reservations about that being awkward, she turned out to be incredibly nice and really hard not to like (trust me I tried). After reading my book, she called immediately, wanting to sign me with Sterling & Stratton Literary Agency. I was genuinely shocked. Wells just sat there with a grin on his face, as if he secretly knew the whole time.

"You're just biased," I remark as we continue walking.

"I'm not biased."

I playfully poke him in the ribs, and he flinches as he gives me a lopsided grin, "Okay, maybe just a little."

We find our seats on the bench, the one that has become our regular spot during our walks in Central Park. It's off the beaten path, along one of the small ponds, with a perfect view of 59th Street. October has started to change the trees lining the pond to a deep shade of red. Everyone in the city is bundled up in coats and scarves on this perfect cold sunny day. I love everything about New York City in the fall.

But I love the way Wells fits into New York even more; it suits him perfectly. I can't even fathom him living anywhere else but here. And now, I can't picture myself living anywhere else but here with him.

I glance over at him as we settle on the bench. He hands me the bag of cookies, and I pass him his coffee. He's dressed in the coat I bought him for his birthday last winter. It makes him look like a sexy college professor, especially paired with the sweater and slacks he's wearing right now. And I love him for it.

I try to conceal my smile behind my coffee cup as I take a sip.

"Okay, let me see it," I say, extending my hand toward him.

I open and close my fingers, anticipating him to place the newspaper in my palm—the New York Times newspaper. The one that is supposed to feature Wells's article on the front page tomorrow.

"Let's have our coffees first," he suggests, placing the folded newspaper under the bag of cookies.

I wrinkle my nose, questioning, "What? Why?"

"I just want to take in the moment," he explains. I squint my eyes at him and glance around. He takes a long, deep breath in and then out, taking in the scenery around us.

"Wells, give me the newspaper," I say, interrupting his little moment, trying to reach around him to grab it.

"No."

"Why?" I laugh out, my face scrunched in confusion as I make another attempt to take hold of the newspaper.

He swats my hand away, huffing out a sigh as his shoulders deflate.

I pause, rolling my eyes. "Please?"

"Okay, fine, but only because I think you're pretty," he says, leaning in as he brushes a kiss on my lips.

"See, you are biased," I murmur softly against him.

A smile tugs on his lips as he pulls away, those little lines, the parentheses, forming on the sides of his lips. He reaches his hand for the paper, retrieving it from beneath the bag of cookies. But, as he starts to hand it to me, he hesitates.

"If you don't like it, just tell me right away, okay?" he implores, his eyes boring into me with an earnestness to them.

"Wells, when have I ever not liked one of your articles?" I ask, trying to match the seriousness in his expression.

"I don't know, you didn't seem to like the one about the flood in Pennsylvania," he mentions, taking a sip of his coffee.

I scoff, "Wells, you wrote about a little boy who was separated from his family during a flood. It took him three months to find them. Of course, I didn't like that one. I cried for over half the article. That doesn't count."

He smirks at me before finally resting the newspaper in my hands. "Thank you," I express with a touch of drama, placing my coffee beside me. I start to open the paper, my eyes still locked on Wells.

"You're acting strange today, you know that?" I remark.

"I'm not acting strange," he insists, shaking his head as his eyes fall down to the dirt.

"Yes, you are," I state. He had in fact been acting strange this morning. Typically, he sits, scrolls through his phone, or reads a book while waiting for me to get ready, but today was different. He was buzzing around the apartment, fidgeting with everything. Organizing the bookshelf, cleaning his espresso maker, doing things that he wouldn't normally be doing at 9 am on a Saturday morning. In fact, I just stood there, once I was ready, mesmerized, watching him. He hadn't even realized I was standing there, ready to go.

"Will you just read the article, please?" he says, growing impatient with me. I press my lips together in a thin line, attempting to suppress my smile.

I stare at him for a moment, narrowing my eyes as I unfold the paper. He nods, gesturing for me to read the newspaper. I turn my eyes to it and begin scanning, searching for a headline about new cop cars. However, my eyes catch on something else—a different headline in bold text.

Juniper Jenkins, will you marry me?

My jaw drops slightly, and I blink twice at it, as my heart thunders in my chest. But with each blink, it's still there. I look back at Wells to find him getting down on one knee, a little black velvet box held delicately in his hands.

Wells has to clear his throat three times before he can manage to say what he wants to say.

"Juniper," his voice, softened by the bustling sounds of Central Park, a smile tugging at the edges. "Will you marry me?"