The blue triangle clearly visible in the window bears four words. WILL YOU MARRY ME? I look up at Nash. “That question—it doesn’t have an expiration date.” He is, even now, so damn steady. “You don’t have to say a word, Libby Grambs. Today, tomorrow, five years from now—if and when you want to answer, all you have to do is give that ball a shake until whatever feels right to you comes up.” His hands find their way to mine.
