I’d seen him messy and smirking, furious and amused. But never embarrassed. It was this sight that reminded me of who I was dealing with. Whit was my friend, maybe even the best one I had. He’d kissed me when we thought we’d die trapped in that tomb, the air slowly turning against us, quietly dangerous. He had held my hand in the dark and shared his biggest regret with me. When someone had dared to hurt me, he’d ended them. This was the man asking for my hand.