“I didn’t even know you were thinking of proposing,” she says. “You didn’t tell me. You told me about Clarabelle biting through her fourth leather leash, and you told me about the duck’s feeding schedule, but you never once mentioned that you planned to make Evie your wife.” She sniffs. “I should have been there. With a cake and a very tasteful speech. But instead, you snuck off in the middle of the afternoon and got married by some—by some hot dog cart vendor.” Beckett blinks, shifts in his chair, and then clears his throat. He looks uncomfortable and for good reason. No one likes to see
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