Chapter 20: The Canyon's Answer
The word hung suspended in the frigid air, sharp and clear as the canyon light breaking over the hoodoos. "Yes." Whitney’s voice trembled, barely audible above the sudden, frantic clicking of camera shutters erupting around them. Tears streamed freely down her wind-chilled cheeks, catching the dawn light like liquid gold. Her gaze was locked on Joe’s face, kneeling before her on the cold stone, the diamond blazing in its velvet cradle.
Joe’s breath hitched. Relief, profound and dizzying, washed over him, momentarily silencing the low throb in his braced toe. A grin, wide and unrestrained, split his face as he surged upwards, ignoring the protest in his leg. He pulled Whitney into him, her thick sweater soft against his jacket, her body trembling against his solid frame. His arms encircled her completely, burying his face in the citrus-scented warmth of her hair beneath the borrowed Bengals beanie. "Yes?" he murmured against her temple, needing to hear it again.
"Yes!" she laughed, the sound choked with tears but radiant. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes luminous pools reflecting the fiery canyon behind him. "A thousand times yes!"
He kissed her then, deep and claiming, pouring every ounce of relief, joy, and fierce protectiveness into it. The canyon amphitheater seemed to hold its breath. The clicking intensified – the Bengals photographers Liv had strategically positioned were capturing every angle: the silhouette against the sunrise, the raw emotion on Joe’s face as he rose, the tearful ecstasy on Whitney’s, the crushing embrace, the kiss that seemed to draw the very light from the awakening sky. Liv, standing slightly apart, lowered her own phone. Her usual composure was fractured; a single tear tracked down her cheek before she swiftly wiped it away, her agent’s mask snapping back into place, though her eyes remained suspiciously bright. She gave a sharp nod to the lead photographer, who flashed her a thumbs-up.
The spell broke. A smattering of applause rippled from the other early risers gathered at Rainbow Point. Someone whistled. Joe reluctantly broke the kiss, keeping Whitney tucked securely under his arm, her face pressed against his chest. He grinned sheepishly at the small crowd, raising a hand in acknowledgment. "Thanks, folks!" he called out, his quarterback voice effortlessly projecting warmth and gratitude. Whitney peeked out, her cheeks flaming crimson, but a dazzling smile lit her face.
Liv materialized beside them, her professional efficiency returning. "Alright, lovebirds, let's get some official shots before the light shifts," she commanded, herding them gently towards a spot with the most dramatic backdrop. "Whitney, hand out. Show the rock." She directed Joe’s arm around Whitney’s waist, positioned Whitney’s left hand near her face. "Joe, look at her, not the camera. Good. Now both look at me." The Bengals photographers worked swiftly, capturing the intimate joy against the grandeur of Bryce Canyon. Liv snapped a few more candid shots on her phone – Joe whispering something that made Whitney laugh, Whitney reaching up to brush snowflakes (or was it tears?) from Joe’s stubbled cheek.
The chill began to seep through their layers as the adrenaline faded. "Okay, wrap it up!" Liv announced, shivering dramatically. "My fingers are about to freeze off. Ruby’s Inn. Breakfast. Stat. And hot coffee. Gallons of it." She ushered them back towards the Suburban, shielding Whitney slightly from the lingering photographers with a practiced move.
The drive back was a blur of shared glances, intertwined fingers resting on the console, and Whitney staring in disbelief at the diamond sparkling on her finger. "It’s… incredible, Joe," she breathed, turning her hand to catch the light. "Like fire trapped in ice."
"Reminded me of you," Joe said softly, squeezing her hand. "Bright. Warm. Strong." He glanced in the rearview mirror, catching Liv’s eye. She gave him a small, approving nod.
Ruby’s Inn buzzed with the comforting chaos of breakfast. The scent of frying bacon, maple syrup, and fresh coffee enveloped them as they pushed through the heavy wooden doors. Krisette spotted them instantly, her eyes widening as she took in Whitney’s radiant expression and the conspicuous new jewelry. She let out a delighted shriek that silenced half the dining room. "SHE SAID YES!" Krisette bellowed, abandoning her coffee pot and charging towards them, arms wide open.
Chaos erupted. Irina appeared, clasping her hands over her mouth, tears welling instantly. Loyd, nursing a coffee at a corner table, choked mid-sip, then grinned and raised his mug in salute. Caitlyn, perched on a stool coloring, looked up, confused by the commotion. "Winnie got married?" she piped up, remembering her decree from dinner.
"Not yet, Bug!" Whitney laughed, swept into Krisette’s crushing embrace. "But soon!" She held out her hand. Krisette gasped, grabbing Whitney’s wrist to examine the ring. "Oh, honey! It’s stunning! Absolutely perfect!" Irina joined the hug, murmuring blessings in Russian, her weathered hands gently touching Whitney’s cheek.
Liv expertly navigated the whirlwind, securing them a large table near the crackling fireplace. Orders were placed amidst the joyful pandemonium – stacks of pancakes, eggs every way, endless coffee and hot chocolate refills. Loyd slid into the seat beside Joe, punching his shoulder lightly. "Way to go, QB1. Knew you had good taste." He nodded towards Whitney, who was showing her ring to a beaming Irina and Caitlyn. "She’s glowing, man."
Joe watched her, a profound contentment settling deep in his chest. "She is," he agreed simply.
Caitlyn wriggled onto Whitney’s lap, fascinated by the sparkly ring. "Is this the cake ring?" she asked solemnly.
Whitney laughed, hugging her niece. "Sort of, sweetie. It means Uncle Joe and I are going to get married. With a big cake!"
"Biggest cake!" Caitlyn confirmed, satisfied. She pointed at Joe. "Uncle Joe now?"
Joe smiled, warmth spreading through him. "Yeah, Bug. Uncle Joe now."
Breakfast became a prolonged celebration. Stories were told – Irina recounted Whitney’s childhood determination, Krisette teased Joe about his awkwardness during their first meeting at the literacy fundraiser. Liv fielded a discreet call, stepping away briefly, her agent’s face settling into serious lines before she returned, masking it with a smile. She caught Joe’s eye and gave a tiny shake of her head – later. The Bengals photographers joined them briefly, handing Liv memory cards before heading out. "Got gold, Liv," the lead one murmured. "Front office is gonna lose it."
As the meal wound down, the exhaustion from the early start and the emotional tidal wave began to show. Whitney leaned heavily against Joe, her eyelids drooping. Back in the sanctuary of their hotel room, the world outside muffled by thick curtains drawn against the midday sun, the enormity of it all truly sank in. Whitney stood by the window, gazing out at the snow-dusted pines, twisting the unfamiliar weight of the ring on her finger. "It feels… surreal," she whispered.
Joe came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Which part? The ring? The canyon? Me kneeling like an idiot with a busted toe?"
She chuckled, leaning back into his solid warmth. "All of it. But mostly… you wanting this. With me." She turned in his arms, searching his face. "It’s a lot, Joe. The ring… the photographers… Liv’s phone buzzing non-stop…"
He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Hey. Look at me." His gaze was steady, intense. "The ring? That’s for us. The photographers? That’s Liv doing her job, managing the circus. The buzzing phone? Noise." He traced the line of her jaw. "This," he murmured, his voice dropping low, "you and me, right here? This is the only thing that’s real. This is what I want. Everything else is just… static."
He kissed her then, slow and deep, a reaffirmation quieter than the canyon sunrise but just as potent. It was a kiss that spoke of belonging, of a future built together, brick by quiet brick. When they finally broke apart, breathless, Whitney rested her forehead against his. "Static," she repeated softly, a smile playing on her lips. "I can handle static. As long as I have this."
A sharp rap on the door shattered the quiet. "Lovebirds!" Liv’s voice called through the wood, brisk and businesslike. "Five minutes! Then I need Joe. League PR is frothing at the mouth. We need to craft a statement before TMZ runs wild with blurry canyon pics." A pause. "And Whit? Start thinking about bridesmaid dress colors. And your dream dress. Just saying." Her footsteps retreated down the hall.
Joe groaned, resting his forehead against Whitney’s. "Duty calls."
Whitney laughed, the sound light and free. She kissed him quickly. "Go manage the circus, Quarterback. I’ll be right here." She gestured towards the cozy armchair. "Dreaming of cake. The biggest cake."
He kissed her once more, lingeringly. "Biggest cake," he promised, his eyes holding hers, the promise stretching far beyond frosting and tiers, into the uncharted, exhilarating territory of their forever. He turned towards the door, the weight of the public world settling back onto his shoulders, but lighter now, anchored by the quiet certainty waiting for him in the room behind him.
He turned towards the door, the weight of the public world settling back onto his shoulders, but lighter now, anchored by the quiet certainty waiting for him in the room behind him. The hallway carpet muffled his steps as he followed the sound of Liv’s sharp voice emanating from a small conference room the inn had grudgingly provided. Inside, the air crackled with suppressed energy. Liv paced near a large window overlooking the snow-dusted pines, phone pressed to one ear, her tablet balanced precariously on the windowsill. Two Bengals PR staffers hunched over laptops at the table, fingers flying across keyboards, their screens glowing with social media feeds already exploding with #BurrowEngaged hashtags and grainy sunrise photos.
"Understood, Paul," Liv snapped into the phone, her gaze fixed on a distant point. "We control the narrative. Hold the official statement until we drop the high-res canyon shots. Yes, the photographers got gold. Tell the league comms team to stand by. Joe’s doing a quick Zoom scrum in ten." She ended the call without ceremony, turning her laser focus on Joe. "Okay, superstar. Damage control. Mostly congratulations, surprisingly. The Bengals PR machine is purring. NFL dot com is already drafting features." She gestured at the laptops. "They want soundbites. Keep it warm, grateful, focused on Whitney and the moment. Deflect anything about the toe, contract specifics, or the draft. Got it? ‘No comment’ is your friend for anything invasive."
Joe nodded, taking a seat facing the laptop camera Liv angled towards him. "Focus on Whit. Got it." He ran a hand through his hair, the familiar pre-game tension coiling, but tempered by the image of Whitney’s tear-streaked face saying ‘yes’. Liv gave the signal. The screen filled with familiar faces from major sports networks. The questions began, a rapid-fire volley.
"Joe! Congratulations! Describe the proposal!"
"It was perfect," Joe said, a genuine smile breaking through. "Sunrise at Bryce Canyon. Couldn't imagine it any other place. She lights up that landscape." He kept his answers warm, personal, steering clear of mechanics. "Whitney is... everything."
"Any wedding date set yet? Big Cincinnati bash?"
"Way too soon for dates," Joe chuckled easily, deflecting. "We’re just soaking in the moment. It’s about us right now, not the party." He smoothly ignored the follow-up about potential celebrity guests.
"Joe, how's the turf toe recovery impacting planning?"
Liv’s eyes narrowed, but Joe just smiled calmly. "Recovery’s on track. Focusing on the good stuff today, guys. Like finally getting to call Caitlyn ‘niece’ officially." He pivoted back to the personal, mentioning Whitney’s niece by name, grounding the story in family. The reporters, disarmed by his warmth on the non-football topic, reluctantly moved on.
Back in the quiet hotel room, Whitney sank onto the edge of the plush king-sized bed, the silence after the breakfast frenzy profound. The unfamiliar weight of the ring on her finger was a constant, thrilling reminder. She needed Em. Dialing her best friend’s number, she held her left hand out, admiring the diamond catching the midday sun filtering through the curtains. The phone rang once, twice.
"WHITNEY MARIE ROBERTS! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!" Em’s shriek ripped through the speakerphone Whitney had instinctively activated, loud enough to make Whitney jerk the phone away from her ear with a startled laugh. The sound seemed to vibrate the windows. "IS IT TRUE? TELL ME IT'S TRUE! THE RING! SHOW ME THE RING RIGHT NOW! VIDEO CALL! VIDEO CALL!"
Whitney fumbled, switching to FaceTime. Em’s face filled the screen, her eyes wide, mascara slightly smudged, hair a wild halo. "EM! Calm down!" Whitney laughed, tears springing to her eyes again at her friend’s unfiltered joy.
"Calm down? CALM DOWN? My best friend is marrying JOE FREAKING BURROW! SHOW ME THE SPARKLE BOMB!" Em demanded, bouncing in her seat. Whitney obediently held her hand close to the camera, rotating it slowly. Em’s scream reached a new, piercing octave. "HOLY SHITBALLS, WHIT! IT’S A DAMN COMET! IT’S INCREDIBLE! HE DID GOOD! HE DID SO GOOD!" She paused, gulping air. "Okay. Okay. Details. Canyon? Sunrise? Was he nervous? Did you cry? Did he cry? Was it magical?"
Whitney recounted the dawn, the cold air, Joe’s intense eyes, the simple question, her trembling ‘yes’. Em listened raptly, interjecting with gasps and sighs. "So," Whitney said, her voice softening, growing serious as the initial frenzy subsided. "There’s something else. Will you? Please? Be my maid of honor?"
Em’s face dissolved into happy tears. "Are you KIDDING? Of course, you ridiculous, wonderful woman! OF COURSE!" She blew her nose loudly into a tissue. "This is going to be epic. EPIC! We need fake champagne. Stat. Virtual champagne!" They talked a little longer, Whitney soaking in Em’s infectious excitement, the reality solidifying.
After hanging up, buoyed by Em’s reaction, Whitney opened her group chat with Casia Scott, Maycee Chappell, and Oakley Orton – her ride-or-dies from tiny Bryce Valley High. Her thumbs flew over the screen.
> Whitney: Okay girls. Deep breaths. Don’t kill me.
> Attached: Photo of the diamond ring blazing on her finger against the hotel bedspread.
> Attached: Screenshot of the stunning Bryce Canyon proposal shot Liv had texted her.
The response was immediate and chaotic.
> Casia: NO. WAY. WHIT!!!
> Maycee: SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! IS THAT JOE BURROW?
> Oakley: Did you say YES? That RING!! That VIEW!!
> Whitney: I said yes! Canyon sunrise. He’s… amazing.
> Casia: Amazing? He’s Joe Burrow! He’s a National Treasure! And he picked YOU! My little Whitney!
> Maycee: When’s the wedding?
> Whitney: Planning just started! But… I need my girls. Will you stand up with me? Be my bridesmaids?
> Oakley: Are you seriously asking? TRY AND STOP US!
> Casia: We’d storm Cincinnati if you didn’t ask!
> Maycee: Dresses? Colors? Themes? Spill!!
> Whitney: Private ceremony. Definitely. Probably late summer? Thinking August… felt right.
> Casia: AUGUST GIRL SOLIDARITY! ✊ (Remember the Great Sweatfest Weddings of ‘22?)
> Maycee: We OWNED August! You’re next!
> Oakley: It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. We’re in. All the way.
Smiling, heart full, Whitney opened Pinterest on her laptop. She created a new board. Her fingers hovered over the name field for a second before typing: FOREVER. She began moving pins: a delicate rose gold floral hair vine she’d saved months ago, a picture of Bryce Canyon hoodoos bathed in sunset light that screamed ‘ceremony backdrop’, an image of elegantly simple mismatched bridesmaid dresses in rich, earthy tones – deep terracotta, sage green, warm ochre. She lingered on cake designs, avoiding towering fondant monstrosities, drawn instead to semi-naked cakes adorned with fresh berries and delicate flowers. August. Her August. Their August.
The hotel room door clicked open. Joe slipped back in, shedding the slight tension he’d carried out. He spotted Whitney curled in the armchair, laptop glowing on her knees, the ring catching the light as her fingers scrolled. He crossed the room quietly, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. "How’s the media circus ringmaster?" she asked, tilting her head back to look up at him, a soft smile playing on her lips.
"Survived. Mostly painless. Liv’s a terrifyingly efficient general." He leaned over her shoulder, peering at the screen filled with cake photos and color palettes. "Ooh. Cake research. My favorite kind." He pointed at a rustic berry-adorned cake. "That one. Looks like it tastes like actual food, not sculpture."
Whitney laughed. "Noted. And…" she scrolled up slightly, showing the earthy color palette she’d been grouping. "Thoughts on these? Terracotta, sage, ochre? Like… the canyon, but softer?"
Joe studied the muted, warm tones. "Yeah," he murmured, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. "That’s you. Warm. Real." He gently took her left hand, lifting it to examine the ring in the room’s light. "Still getting used to seeing this here." His thumb brushed over the diamond, then the warm rose gold band. "Suits you." He looked from the ring to the colors on her screen, then back to her face. "So… August? With the Sweatfest Survivors?"
"You saw the chat?" Whitney grinned.
"Maycee texted me six question marks and seventeen exclamation points. Hard to miss." He squeezed her hand. "It’s perfect. Just… need the biggest cake." He gestured again at the rustic berry cake on her screen, a quiet promise hanging in the comfortable silence, the weight of the ring on her finger anchoring them both as the whirlwind of planning began to spin.
The quiet hum of the laptop fan was the only sound as Whitney traced the screen, her fingertip hovering over the image of the berry-strewn cake. Joe’s hand rested warm and heavy on her shoulder, a comforting anchor. "Biggest cake," he murmured again, the corner of his mouth lifting.
Then Whitney’s phone, deliberately placed face-up on the nightstand beside Whitney, erupted. Not a ring. A continuous, frantic vibration, skittering across the polished wood like a trapped insect. The screen lit up, blindingly bright in the dim room, flashing notifications – Twitter, Instagram, ESPN alerts – piling on top of each other faster than she could read them. #BurrowEngaged, #BryceCanyonProposal, Joe Burrow Fiancée, WHO IS WHITNEY ROBERTS? Every notification was a fresh tremor.
"Shit," Joe breathed, his hand tightening on her shoulder. He reached past her, silencing the phone, but the damage was done. The screen kept lighting up, relentless. Whitney stared at it, the cozy Pinterest board suddenly feeling absurdly naive. The ring on her finger felt less like a promise and more like a beacon.
Liv burst through the connecting door without knocking, her own phone clamped to her ear, tablet tucked under her arm. "Okay, Paul, they’ve dropped. Floodgates are open. Track sentiment, kill any nasty speculation instantly. Whit’s background is pristine, lean into the educator angle, the Utah connection." She glanced at them, her eyes sharp, assessing Whitney’s frozen posture. "Whit? Deep breath. It’s happening. The canyon shots are live. They’re… spectacular." She held out her tablet.
The screen showed the official Bengals feed. There it was: Joe, haloed by dawn light on one knee, the canyon ablaze behind him. Whitney’s profile, hand flying to her mouth, tears catching the sun. The next shot: the crushing embrace, her face buried in his jacket, his expression one of pure, stunned relief. The final one: the kiss, the sun cresting the rim, bathing them in fire. It was breathtakingly intimate, yet broadcast to millions. The likes and comments were already climbing into the hundreds of thousands. "Oh," Whitney whispered, her voice thin.
"Exactly," Liv said, already swiping to another screen filled with rapidly scrolling headlines. "Good Morning America wants an exclusive. People Magazine is offering seven figures. TMZ already has paparazzi en route to Bryce. They’ll be swarming this inn within the hour."
"Paparazzi?" Whitney echoed, the word feeling foreign and threatening. "Here?" She pictured men with long lenses lurking among the pinyon pines, outside the diner window.
"Small town, big news," Liv stated flatly. "Joe, we need to move. Now. Your presence here is a magnet. We have the jet fueled in Cedar City. Wheels up in ninety minutes." She started typing furiously on her phone. "Whitney, pack essentials. Leave anything non-critical; we’ll have it shipped. Tell your family to stay put, avoid talking to anyone with a camera until we have a comms plan for them."
Joe stood, pulling Whitney up with him. Her legs felt unsteady. "Okay, Liv. Cedar City. Got it." He turned to Whitney, cupping her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were calm, resolute. "Listen to me. This?" He gestured to the buzzing phone, the tablet full of headlines. "This is noise. Loud, annoying noise. We control what we can. We get on that plane. We go home. Together." He kissed her forehead, a firm, grounding press. "Never just noise, Angel. The real thing is right here."
His certainty steadied her, cutting through the rising panic. She nodded, taking a shaky breath. "Okay. Together. Let me just…" She grabbed her duffel bag, moving mechanically towards the closet, the earthy Pinterest colors forgotten. She threw in her toothbrush, the soft owl pajamas, the warm sweater he’d chosen for the canyon. The ring caught the light as she moved, a constant, dazzling reminder of the world now watching.
Liv was already on another call, voice low and commanding. "Rico? Perimeter sweep at the Cedar City airport. Private hangar only. Minimal staff. Keep the local cops discreet if they show up expecting a scene." She glanced at Joe. "Car’s pulling around back in five. Hoodies up, heads down, move fast. Ignore everything."
Joe zipped up Whitney’s bag, slung his own over his shoulder. He pulled a Bengals hoodie over his head, then handed Whitney a plain black one of his, swallowing her frame. "Ready?" he asked, holding out his hand.
Downstairs, Ruby’s Inn was unnervingly normal. The scent of coffee and bacon still hung in the air. Krisette stood behind the counter, her usual smile strained, her eyes wide. A few guests glanced up, phones subtly angled. Loyd materialized from the hallway, looking grim. "Front lot’s clear," he muttered to Liv. "But there’s a couple sketchy vans parked down the road near the entrance."
"Back exit," Liv ordered, already striding towards the kitchen. They moved quickly – Liv leading, then Joe and Whitney hand-in-hand, Loyd bringing up the rear like a linebacker. Through the steamy kitchen, past startled cooks, and out the heavy metal door into the alley. A black SUV idled, engine running, tinted windows up. The driver, a burly man Whitney didn’t recognize, nodded.
They piled in. Joe pulled Whitney down low in the backseat as Liv slammed the door. "Go, Mitch. Fast but smooth." The SUV pulled away just as the first flashbulb exploded against the tinted window near Whitney’s head. A shout echoed in the alley. Then another flash, closer this time. "Faster, Mitch," Liv snapped, her phone already out, likely texting the airport team.
Whitney pressed her face against Joe’s shoulder, the hoodie shielding her. She could feel his heart pounding against her temple, steady but rapid. The car accelerated, turning sharply onto the main road away from the inn. The flashes became sporadic streaks in the side mirrors, then vanished as Mitch gunned it onto the open highway, leaving Bryce Canyon and the erupting frenzy momentarily behind, the hum of the tires on asphalt the only sound inside their temporary bubble of escape. Liv was already doing damage control, Loyd taking care of most of the photographers as he kept shut and ushered them away from the scene.
They were stuck in Cedar City, the plane and airport taken over by fans and paparazzi. After Whitney texted her mom and told her they were safe, Whitney and Joe had gone to bed. Joe’s phone buzzed violently against the nightstand, rattling like a trapped hornet. The third time in ten minutes. Whitney watched his jaw tighten as he ignored it again, his thumb tracing absent circles on her shoulder where the oversized Bengals shirt had slipped down to reveal her garments.
"Could be important," she murmured, even as she curled deeper into his side, her legs tangling with his under the sheets. The scent of sweat and hotel shampoo clung to the rumpled bedding.
"It’s always important," he muttered, pressing his lips to her temple. "Not as important as this." His hand slid down to the small of her back, possessive and warm.
The phone lit up again, casting jagged shadows across the ceiling. Liv’s name flashed, followed by a string of furious texts they could both see without looking:
**TMZ has canyon pics. ESPN running engagement ticker. NFL Network wants you LIVE at 7AM. Your mother called ME. Call your damn mother.**
Joe groaned, rolling onto his back and dragging a hand over his face. "Fuck."
Whitney propped herself up on one elbow, her hair a sleep-mussed halo. "She’s not wrong. I thought you called her! Your mom’s probably losing it."
"Yeah, and she’ll take it out on Liv first." He grabbed the phone, thumbs flying. **Tell my mom I’ll call in 20. ESPN can wait til noon. And breathe, Liv.**
The response was instantaneous. **Breathing is for people who don’t have your face splashed across Deadspin with the headline ‘Burrow’s Canyon Proposal: Rom-Com or PR Stunt?’**
Whitney flinched. "They’re already spinning it?"
Joe’s grip on the phone turned white-knuckled. "They spin everything." He turned to her abruptly, his free hand cupping her cheek. "You good? Like—actually good? Not just putting on a brave face for me?"
The question hung there, raw and unexpected. She could lie. Could brush it off with a joke about cake flavors or the absurdity of TMZ. But his eyes—sharp, alert, too damn perceptive—demanded honesty.
"It’s… a lot," she admitted, pressing her palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart. "Not us. Never us. But the noise? The way they’re already picking us apart?" She swallowed. "Kinda makes me want to hide in this room forever."
He exhaled, long and slow, his forehead dropping to hers. "We can do that. Seriously. Liv can handle the circus. We’ll order room service, unplug the TV, ignore the world for—"
His phone rang again. **Unknown Caller.**
Whitney felt the tension ripple through him before he even moved. "Don’t," she said softly.
He hesitated, then swiped to decline. "You’re right. Fuck ’em."
But the damage was done. The fragile bubble of the last twelve hours—just them, just this—had cracked. The real world oozed in through the seams.
Liv’s next text was almost apologetic: **Heads up. Your dad just told the Cincy Enquirer he’s ‘thrilled to finally have a daughter-in-law with real manners.’ Direct quote. Your brothers are pissed and threatening to respond. Want me to tell them down? I tried with your dad.**
Joe’s laugh was razor-thin. "Christ. Never change, Jim."
Whitney sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist. "Is he— Are you okay?"
"Define ‘okay.’" He scrubbed a hand over his stubble. "He’s been pulling this shit since I was drafted. Throws a grenade, then acts shocked when it explodes."
She reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. His knuckles were scraped—from what, she didn’t know, but the sight sent a weird pang through her chest. "We don’t have to engage. Let Liv handle—"
"Liv can’t handle my dad," he cut in, voice low. "No one can. That’s the point." His thumb brushed over her ring, the diamond catching the dim light. "You sure you wanna marry into this mess?"
The question wasn’t playful. It wasn’t rhetorical.
She didn’t hesitate. "I’m sure." Leaning in, she kissed him, slow and deliberate, until she felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. When she pulled back, she kept her voice light. "Besides, my dad once told Loyd’s prom date she had ‘the moral backbone of a chocolate éclair.’ We’re basically royalty in the dysfunctional family Olympics."
Joe huffed a laugh, genuine this time. "God, I love you."
"Prove it," she challenged, nodding at his phone. "Call your mom. Then we’re turning this thing off and ordering pancakes at"—she checked the clock—"3:17 AM."
He groaned but reached for the phone. "You’re a cruel woman, Roberts."
"Burrow soon," she shot back, grinning.
The mattress dipped as he stood, stretching, his frame silhouetted against the gauzy curtains. She watched the play of muscle under his hoodie as he dialed.
"Hey, mom. Yeah, I’m alive. Yeah, it’s real. No, we’re not eloping. Yet." A pause. "Because I just fucking proposed twelve hours ago, let us breathe—" Another pause, longer. His shoulders slumped. "I know. I know. She’s right here."
He turned, holding out the phone. Whitney’s stomach lurched.
"Mom wants to say hi," he mouthed.
Panic flared, bright and hot. She’d met Robin Burrow exactly twice—both times in crowded rooms where polite small talk sufficed. This was different.
But Joe’s eyes held a quiet plea.
She took the phone.
***
Downstairs, in the hotels deserted lobby, Liv paced behind a potted fern, her own phone pressed to her ear. "No, Paul, we are not confirming wedding dates to People Magazine. No, we are not addressing the fucking ‘PR stunt’ narrative today. Jesus, it’s been half a day—"
A TV above the empty concierge desk flickered to life, volume low but unmistakable:
"—breaking news out of Cincinnati, where Bengals quarterback Joe Burrow’s surprise engagement has sent shockwaves through—"
Liv didn’t glance up. "Paul. Paul. Listen to me. We feed them the canyon photos on our terms. We let Joe and Whit have one goddamn morning. Then—"
The TV cut to a press conference—Jim Burrow, mid-sentence, his familiar smirk making Liv’s stomach turn.
"—always knew Joe would land on his feet. That Roberts girl’s got a good head on her shoulders. Unlike some of the others he’s brought home."
Liv’s grip on the phone tightened. "Oh, you son of a bitch."
Upstairs, oblivious, Whitney laughed at something Robin said, the sound bright and nervous. Joe watched her, his expression softening.
Outside, the first reporters pulled into the hotel parking lot.