Disclaimer: All rights belong to Glee & its crew as well as the lovely people who wrote, directed, and produced The Proposal (2009).

A/N: For the purpose of a story, let's just pretend like gay marriage is legal. Because, really, we all know it should be.

I squint against a ray of sunlight that somehow made its way through a crack in the curtain. That's weird, usually I'm up just before the sun rises. I blink a few more times and blow the hair out of my face before sinking further into the sheets.

Wait. The sun. I shoot up and grab the clock, tumbling out of bed and crumple onto the floor. The clock reads 6:30AM, which means I was already almost an hour behind schedule.

"Shit!"

I jump up and kick off the sheets tangled around my feet and head into the bathroom to get as much done as I can. I shove the toothbrush into my mouth and glance into the mirror, wincing when I saw my wild hair. I looked like a fucking lion foaming at the mouth (thanks to the toothpaste), but there was no time to shower.

Hopefully someone would just think it was sex hair. I mean, it could happen, right?

Somehow managing to pat down the mane, I slide on a pair of black, form-fitting pants and start buttoning up the collared shirt, slipping on a tie and vest to draw some attention away from my hair.

Rushing out of the apartment and through the mass of fellow NYCers, I make my way to the nearest Starbucks, sending a little 'thank you' prayer up to the heavens that I live so close to the office. However, encountering a line nearly out the door, I quickly retract the prayer and swear under my breath, shoving my way to the front.

"Quinn, hey!" The barista calls, beckoning me over. "Here you go. Your regular lattes."

I shoot her a grateful smile and take the lattes from her. "Literally saved my life. Thank you, thank you!"

She smirks as I wink at her before weaving my way out of the shop, ignoring all the annoyed customers. Man, it really pays to flirt sometimes.

I glance at my watch, seeing that I'm going to be late if I don't pick it up a bit. I increase my pace, thanking the stars for my crazy ass cheer coach back home. Seriously, she must have gotten her drills from the Marines or something. As I practically run into the building, I see the elevator doors start to close. Sucking in a breath, I leap into the two foot gap, raising both coffees over my head as I crash into a wall of suits.

They grunt at me as I regain my balance and step forward to give them their space.

"Everyone okay?" I ask, looking around. It's all blank stares and glares, so I just return my gaze to the elevator doors. "Yeah, yeah. Me too."

As soon as the elevator doors reopen, I rocket out of there. The secretary glances up at me. "Cuttin' it close."

"One of those mornings!" I call out over my shoulder, only to collide with some dumb ass intern and a cart, spilling one of the lattes all over my shirt.

"Sorry!" The intern squeaks, scuttling away before I can knock some sense into him.

"Sweet Jesus!" I mutter, marching over to my desk and slamming down the remaining coffee cup.

My coworker, Mike, takes in my sorry, coffee-stained state and chuckles. "Rub some dirt on it, sistah."

I glare at him, then notice what he's wearing. I give him a sickening-sweet smile. "Mike. I need the shirt off your back. Literally."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Yankees, Boston, this Tuesday," I say, "two company seats for your shirt. You have five seconds to decide. Four. Three. Two…"

"Alright!" Mike says, tugging his shirt over his head. "Jeeze."

I shrug off my shirt to hand it over and glance towards the door to make sure the boss isn't here yet. Thankfully, Mike's a similar size as me, and the shirt fits fine, though it is a little long. I tuck the extra length into my pants, roll the sleeves, and pull on the vest, looping the tie through the collar once again.

Just as I finish up, Rachel strides into the room, arguing on the phone with a client. I gather a few reports, check over her schedule, and grab her latte before following her into her office and closing the door.

When I turn around, she has hung up and is sitting down at her desk, shuffling through a few papers. The boss looks like she has gotten a good night's sleep for once; she is refreshed, the early morning sunlight making her tan skin glow. Her wavy brown hair shimmers in the swirling dust motes. Rachel's light use of make-up is flawless. Though, she'd probably be just as pretty without any. If she smiled more, she'd be a goddess.

But she was a hell-bound, heartless monster of a woman.

I clear my throat, trying to shake the thoughts from my head, and she extends her arm without even looking up at me. I roll my eyes but step forward to hand her the latte.

"Morning," I say, "you have a conference call in thirty minutes."

She takes a sip of the espresso and nods. "Yes, about the marketing of the spring books. I know."

Well, then. Maybe you can just do the job on your own, I think, but continue. "Staff meeting at 9:00."

She drums her fingers on the desk and scrutinizes me. "Did you call…what's her name? The one with the ugly hands."

Really nice, Rachel. "Janet?"

She waves her hand, like names are trivial. "Yes, Janet."

"Yes," I say. "I did. I told her that if she doesn't get her manuscript in on time you won't give her a release date."

She nods her approval and returns her attention to the manuscript in from of her. I start to inch towards the door, stopping just before it. "Um, your immigration lawyer called. He said it's imperative…"

The boss takes a deep breath, massaging her temples. "Cancel the call, push the meeting to tomorrow, keep the lawyer on the sheets. Get a hold of PR, have them start drafting a press release. Frank is doing Oprah."

"Wow. Nicely done." Frank had been a hermit for the past few decades, and no one had been able to get him to stick out his head and talk about just how brilliant he is. But, of course, dragon lady never takes no for an answer. I never should have doubted her, really. It's a strength and weakness of hers.

"If I want your praise, I will ask for it."

I bite my lip to keep a snarky remark from escaping, and turn to open the door.

"Who is…who is Jillian?" I freeze, door midway open. She is reclining back in her large black chair, looking smug. "And why does she want me to call her?"

"Well, that was originally my cup."

"And I'm drinking your coffee, why?"

"Because your coffee spilled," I say, wincing.

She takes another long sip. "So, you drink unsweetened, cinnamon light soy lattes?"

"I do," I reply. "It's like Christmas in a cup."

"Is that a coincidence?"

"Incredibly, it is. I wouldn't drink the same coffee that you drink just in case yours spilled. That would be pathetic," I deadpan, and hear the phone ring.

As I reach for the phone, I mentally facepalm. Really, Fabray? Christmas in a cup? "Hello, Ms. Berry's office. Hey, Finn." I glance over to Rachel, who motions towards the door. "Actually, we're headed to your office right now. Yeah." I hang up and frown. "Why are we going to Finn's office?"

She brushes past me, saying nothing and begins to gather some papers. Right, okay. No answer.

I step ahead of her and out to my desk, bending over the computer to type out a warning to my coworkers. The witch is on her broom.

The office people are immediately a flurry of files and fake phone calls, feigning work. I roll my eyes and open the door for Rachel.

"Have you finished the manuscript I gave you?" I ask as I match her brisk pace.

"I read a few pages," she says. "I wasn't that impressed."

"Can I say something?"

"No."

"I've read thousands of manuscripts, this is the only one I've given you." The only reason I put up with you every single day for hours on end, I think, but don't say. "There's an incredible novel in there. The kind of novels you used to publish."

"Wrong. And I do think you order the same coffee as I do just in case you spill, which is, in fact, pathetic." She casts me a sideways glance.

"Or impressive."

"I'd be impressed if you didn't spill in the first place," she says, stepping into Finn's office. "Remember, you're a prop."

"Won't say a word," I mutter.

"Our fearless leader and her liege," Finn says, grinning his lopsided smile. I glare at him and his dumb humor. "Please, do come in."

Rachel looks around the office, and I remain near the door. "Beautiful breakfront. Is it new?"

Finn leaned against the front of his desk. "It is English Regency Egyptian Revival, built in the 1800s but, yes, it is new to my office."

I held in a groan. Cocky douchebag.

"Witty," Rachel drawls, seeming to have a similar reaction. "Finn, I'm letting you go."

"Pardon?" He stands up, towering over my tiny boss. My mouth drops open at her bluntness, and I rushed to close the door for privacy. The fuck? A heads up next time would be nice.

Finn's just as shocked as I am, but manages to school his features somewhat.

"I asked you a dozen times to get Frank to do Oprah, and you didn't do it," she says. "You're fired."

"I have told you, that is impossible," he argues. "Frank hasn't done an interview in 20 years."

Rachel tilts her head. "That's interesting, because I just got off the phone with him, and he is in."

"Excuse me?" Finn backs up a little. He looks like Rachel just ripped his balls off and fed them to a rhino or T-rex or something.

"You didn't even call him, did you?"

"But..."

"I know, I know." She sighs. "Frank can be a little scary to deal with. For you." Finn's fists clench and his face grows red. "Now, I will give you two months to find another job. And then you can tell everyone you resigned, OK?"

It's a reasonable offer. I mean, two months of pay, and you can slack off all you want while looking for a job…it was much better than being fired and kicked to the curb, that's for sure.

I open the door and follow her out.

"What's his twenty?"

I glance behind us. "He's moving. He has crazy eyes."

"Don't do it, Finn. Don't do it." I hear her mutter to herself, and find myself worrying about her for a moment.

Then shit gets real.

"You poisonous bitch!" Finn yells, swaggering out of his office. I see Rachel cringe before feigning nonchalance and turning to face him and his rant. "You can't fire me! You don't think I see what you're doing here? Sandbagging me on this Oprah thing so that you can look good to the board?" Encouraged by coworkers' stares, he continues, waggling a finger at her. "Because you are threatened by me! And you are a monster!"

"Finn, stop," Rachel warns with a weird smile. It's more of a grimace. I shrink behind her a little—Finn was losing it and I was not going to get sucked into this.

"Just because you have no semblance of a life outside of this office, you think that you can treat all of us like your own personal slaves. You know what? I feel sorry for you. Because you know what you're gonna have on your deathbed? Nothing and no one." He crosses his arms and smirks.

I gasp. Okay, that was uncalled for. Our boss can be a heartless bitch, yeah, and maybe I've fantasized about her getting swallowed by a hippo or dropped out of a plane before, but Finn's words ripped out her insecurities and got way too personal.

Rachel clears her throat. When she speaks, her voice is quiet but firm. It's harsher than a yell. "Listen carefully, Finn. I didn't fire you because I feel threatened. No. I fired you because you're lazy, entitled, incompetent and you spend more time cheating on your wife than you do in your office.

"And if you say another word, Quinn here is gonna have you thrown out, OK?"

My eyes widen and Finn opens his mouth, but Rachel interrupts him before he can begin. "Another word, and you're going out of here with an armed escort. Quinn will film it with her camera phone and she'll put it on that Internet site."

She pauses and turns to me. "What was it?"

"YouTube?"

"Exactly." She glances back at Finn. "Is that what you want?"

He takes a step back, shaking his head. Rachel 2, Finn 0.

"Didn't think so. I have work to do." She turns on her heel and I scramble to catch up. "Have security take his breakfront and put it in my conference room."

"Will do." I'm still stunned by the showdown, but her next request shakes me from my shock.

"I need you this weekend to help review his files and his manuscript."

"This weekend?" I ask.

"You have a problem with that?"

"No. I... just my grandmother's 90th birthday, so I was gonna go home and..." I can tell she isn't listening at all, and mutter the rest dryly to myself. "It's fine. I'll cancel it. You're saving me from a weekend of misery, so it's... Good talk, yeah."

I stalk to my desk and lift the phone, dialing my home number to let my family know I won't be able to make it. My mother's pissed.

"It's her 90th birthday, Quinnie."

"I know, I know, okay? Tell Gammy I'm sorry. What do you want me to tell you? She's making me work the weekend."

"Can't you just tell her no? You've already given up so much. She'll understand. Just go march into her office and explain!"

"No, I'm not... no."

"Why don't you just quit, dear? You're miserable."

I sigh. "I've worked too hard for this promotion to throw it all away."

"You're father isn't going to be happy."

"I'm sure that Dad is going to be pissed," I grumble. Feeling someone behind me, I switch to business mode. "But we take all of our submissions around here seriously. We'll get back to you as soon as we can." I end the phone call and stand to face the boss.

She gazes at me for a moment and I shift uncomfortably under her steady brown eyes. "Was that your family?"

"Yes," I say, running a hand through my hair.

"They tell you to quit?"

"Every single day."

There's an awkward pause, until I'm saved by the phone.

"Bergen and Malloy want to see you upstairs," I say, dropping the receiver back into its cradle.

"Okay, come and get me in ten minutes, we've got a lot to do," she orders, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she strides away.

"Okey-dokey," I reply, letting my gaze wander down her backside. Damn, those three inch heels are really working for her today. Not that she needs heels—her tiny height makes her adorable.

Ugh, not again. Remember who you're thinking about, Q, I remind myself, forcing my attention to the screen in front of me.

Ten minutes later, on the dot, I knock on the large company door and poke my head in.

"Excuse me, we're in a meeting," one of the suits says.

I ignore him, focusing on Rachel. "Sorry to interrupt—"

"What?!" She snaps at me, nearly growling. What the hell did I walk into?

"Um, Mary from Ms. Winfrey's office called. She's on the line."

"I know."

"She's on hold," I say. "She needs to speak with you. I told her you were otherwise engaged, but she insisted, so... sorry."

Rachel was clearly fuming about something, so I figured I might as well get her out of here before she did something irrational. "So…" I say raising an eyebrow, and motion for her to come with me downstairs.

Then, all of a sudden, she has this look on her face, and she's staring at me like it's the first time we've seen each other. I turn my head to the side slightly, asking her why the fuck are you looking at me like that?

"Come here," she finally says, waving me over. She's got crazy eyes and a tight smile and that's never a good combination. I step away from the door to stand beside her, knowing I'm going to get an explanation and that it'll just be easier if I play along, like usual.

"Gentlemen, I understand," she begins, "I understand the predicament that we are in. And… and there's, well... I think there's something that you should know."

Rachel glances up at me, and I return her stare, confused. She's never at a loss for words. Then she reaches over and pokes my arm a few times, putting on a wide grin. "We're getting married! We are getting married."

"Who is getting married?" I ask.

"You and I," she says, and raises an eyebrow to dare me to say otherwise. "You and I are getting married! Yes."

"We are…" I repeat, trailing off.

"Getting married," she finishes, biting her lip.

"We are getting married," I say. Was this a joke? Is this a national give your assistant a heart attack day? I glance around, looking for a hidden camera.

"Yes," she confirms, laying her hand on my shoulder. I reflexively go to put my hand over hers, but she pulls away.

"Isn't she your secretary?" One of the suits spoke up.

"Assistant," I correct.

"Executive... assistant, secretary. Titles," she waves her hand in the air. "But, wouldn't be the first time one of us fell for our secretaries. Would it, William?" She addresses the suit who asked the question. "With Emma. Remember?" He blushes while the other guy snickers at him.

"So, yeah. The truth is, you know," Rachel says. "Quinn and I, we're..." We exchanged a glance, and I nod for her to continue, because there is no way I was helping her spin this bullshit. Hell, I still wasn't completely sure what was happening. "...we are just two people who weren't meant to fall in love, but we did."

"No," I say. Never meant to fall in love. Ever.

"All those late nights at the office and weekend book fairs," she adds. "Yeah..."

"No," I repeat.

"Something happened." She awkwardly puts her arm around my waist.

"Something." I try to smile. "Yeah."

"Tried to fight it and... Can't fight a... Can't fight… Can't fight a love like ours, so..." If I wasn't so horrified with what was being said, her struggle with words would have amused me to no end. She withdraws her arm from my hip and I find myself shifting closer to her. "Are we good with this? Are you happy? Because, well, we are happy. So happy." She smiles and pinches my cheek.

"Rachel," suit guy—Will—says.

"Yes?"

"It's terrific. Just make it legal." He holds up a hand and wiggles his finger.

"Legal. Right." She starts backing up towards the door, tugging me along by the cuff of my shirt. "Yeah, well, then that means we, we need to get ourselves to the immigration office. So we can work this whole mess out. Right?

"Thank you very much, gentlemen. We will do that right away."

"Thank you," I mutter. "Gentlemen."

"Thank you," Rachel says, yanking me out of the room. We head back to her office, passing the mob of employees, who had somehow managed to find out about what had happened upstairs. I tug on my tie, feeling like I'm suffocating.

"Rachel and Quinn are getting married!"

"What is that about?"

"Dragon Lady! Here they come."

"Yeah."

"What is she thinking?"

"Married? Didn't even know they were dating."

Mike laughs at me. "Dude, for real. Her?"

I shoot him a glare and follow the boss into her office and shut the door. She either doesn't notice I've come in or chooses to pretend like nothing happened. Either way, I remain stationed in the middle of the room.

"What?" She finally asks.

"I don't understand what's happening," I say, looking at her incredulously.

"Relax. This is for you, too."

"Do explain."

"They were going to make Finn chief."

"So, naturally, I would have to marry you?" I ask.

"What's the problem? Like you were saving yourself for someone special?" She flips the page of a manuscript.

"I like to think so," I mutter. "Besides, it's illegal."

"They're looking for terrorists, not for book publishers."

Okay, this chick is crazy. Off the rails. Does she really think I'm just going to marry her? What if I had been in a relationship? I had a life. There was more to life than my job, and I'd made enough sacrifices already. She'd have to let me off the hook. Besides, what could she do if I said no? She'd be deported back to Canada and I'd get Finn as a new boss, who would probably be less of a satan and more of an idiotic, manageable ass.

"Rachel."

"Yes?"

"I'm not gonna marry you."

"Sure you are. Because if you don't, your dreams of touching the lives of millions with the written word are dead. Finn is gonna fire you the second I'm gone. Guaranteed. That means you're out on the street looking for a job. That means the time that we spent together, the lattes, the cancelled dates, the midnight Tampax runs, were all for nothing and all your dreams of being an editor are gone."

As she spoke, the walls closed in on me. I was suffocated before, but now I was crushed. Because everything she was saying was true, no matter how badly I wanted to deny it. My only chance was dependent on her being here. I suck in a breath of air, trying to fill my lungs.

"Don't worry, after the required allotment of time, we'll get a divorce and you'll be done with me. But until then, like it or not, your wagon is hitched to mine."

I stand, gaping at her. She glances up at me. "Okay? Phone."

The immigration office is packed with people. How is it always so busy every day? I mean, yeah, there's a lot of people in NYC, it being the place where dreams come true and all, but come on.

Rachel, still dressed in a pencil skirt and fitted blazer and blouse, surveys the busy room before pushing her way to the front. "This way."

"Rachel!" I hiss.

"Come."

"That's the line," I point out, but follow her anyway. There was no winning with the brunette.

"Next, please," the employee drawls out.

Rachel hops in front of someone, giving them a smile. "Just… sorry, I need to ask something. I need you to file this fiancée visa for me, please."

I hide behind my boss, hoping no one will notice me, especially the worker behind the desk. She, however, throws a dirty look at the two of us. I want to melt into the floor.

But Rachel looks behind her and around her, impatiently waiting for the woman to assist her. She has to be made of stone to ignore a glare like that. The lady gives us our papers back, and motions for us to wait. I apologize for Rachel, before following her into a back room.

"I have a bad feeling about this." I whisper. She rolls her eyes, but says nothing.

A half hour later, a creepy looking man comes in. He has frizzy hair and round glasses and lookes proud of himself. Too proud. "Miss Berry?"

"Yes."

"Hi. Hello."

"Hello," she responds, and puts down her phone.

"Hi. I'm Mr. Israel."

"Hi."

He turns to me. "And you must be Quinn."

I nod.

"Well, sorry about the wait. It's a crazy day today."

"Of course, of course. We understand," Rachel says, pretending like she hadn't cut the line out of impatience. "I can't tell you how much we appreciate you seeing us on such short notice."

"OK," he says, looking through the papers. "So, I have one question for you. Are you both committing fraud to avoid her deportation so she can keep her position as editor in chief at Colden Books?

"That's ridiculous," I squeak, feeling my stomach drop to the floor.

"Where did you hear that?" Rachel asks, sitting up straighter.

"We had a phone tip this afternoon from a man named..." He looks at the paper again.

"Would it be Finn Hudson?" Rachel asks.

"Finn Hudson," Mr. Israel confirms, looking back up curiously.

"Finn. Poor Finn. I am so sorry. Finn is nothing but a disgruntled former employee. And I apologize. But we know you're incredibly busy with a room full of gardeners and delivery boys to tend to." My mouth drops open and the creepy immigration guy glares at her. "If you just give us our next step, we will be out of your hair and on our way." She stands, brushing the wrinkles from her skirt.

"Miss Berry, please." The guy motions for her to sit again. She feigns a smile and sinks back down into the chair. He leans forward and clasps his hands. I press my back into the chair, growing uneasy. "Let me explain to you the process that's about to unfold. Step one will be a scheduled interview. I'll put you each in a room, and I'll ask you every little question that a real couple would know about each other.

"Step two, I dig deeper. I look at your phone records, I talk to your neighbors, I interview your co-workers. If your answers don't match up at every point, you will be deported indefinitely."

He looks at me, smug smile in place. "And you, young woman, will have committed a felony punishable by a fine of $250K, and a stay of five years in federal prison. So, Quinn. You wanna... you want to talk to me?"

Rachel chuckles, swatting at my arm and shaking her head. "She has nothing to say."

The frizzy haired guy's attention remains on me. I shift in my chair. I shake my head in the negative.

"No?"

I pause, swallow, and nod.

"Yes?"

Rachel's eyes narrowed at me. "Quinn, baby."

"The truth is... Mr. Israel, the truth is..." I turn to face Rachel, patting her hand. "Rachel and I... are just two people who weren't supposed to fall in love. But did."

She grins and puts her hand over mine, nodding along with my explanation.

"We couldn't tell anyone we work with because of my big promotion that I had coming up."

"Promotion?" Mr. Israel asks.

"Yeah."

"Your?" Rachel asks, skeptical.

"We, we both felt that it would be deeply inappropriate if I were to be promoted to editor," I continue.

"Editor," the brunette repeats. I can hear the sarcasm in her voice.

"Have the two of you told your parents about your secret love?" He asks. I frown; it sounded like he was mocking us.

"Oh, I... impossible. My parents are dead," Rachel says. "No brothers or sisters either. Gone."

"Are your parents dead?" He asks me, rolling his eyes.

"No, hers are very much alive," Rachel butts in.

"No, very much," I confirm.

"Very much. They're... Well, we were gonna tell them this weekend. Gammy's 90th birthday, and the whole family's coming together." I stare at her. Crazy dragon lady say what now? Since when had she ever listened to anything I said? "We thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Where is this surprise gonna take place?"

"At Quinn's parents' house."

"And where is that located again?" He smirks.

"Oh, why am I doing all the talking?" She laughs and rubs my shoulder. "It's your parents' house, sweetie. Why don't you tell him where it is. Jump in."

I pull my gaze away from the hand on my upper arm. "Sitka."

"Sitka." She chirps.

"Alaska."

"Alaska-aaa." Her head flies in my direction in disbelief. I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing.

"You're gonna go to Alaska this weekend?" Immigration guy asks.

"Yeah," I say.

"Yes, yes," she echoes, letting her hand drop away from me. "We are going to Alaska. Alaska, that's where... that's where my little... that's where my Quinn's from."

"Okay. Fine. I see how this is gonna go." He restacks the papers and straightens them on the desk. "I will see you both at 11:00 Monday morning for your scheduled interview, and your answers better match up on every account."

"Thank you," Rachel says, and moves to the door.

"Looking forward to this," Mr. Israel says, winking. Seriously, how creepy can you get?

"We're looking forward to it, too. Thank you."

"Yeah," I say.

"Gonna be fun. I'll be checking up on you." And we've reached another level of weirdness.

"You got it," I say, nearly pushing Rachel out the door.

We make our way out of the building and onto the sidewalk.

"Okay... so, what's gonna happen is we will go up there. We'll pretend we're dating, tell your parents we're engaged. Use the miles for the tickets. I guess I will pop for you to fly first class. But make sure you use the miles."

I stop in my tracks and watch her go on for a few more steps, babbling about airplane fees and meals.

"If we don't get the miles, we're not doing it. Please confirm the vegan meal. 'Cause last time they gave it to a vegetarian, and they forced me to eat this clammy, warm, creamy salad thing, which was..."

She finally notices I'm not at her side and backtracks. "Hey, I'm... Why aren't you taking notes?"

"I'm sorry, were you not in that room?" I snap.

"What? What?" She replies, furrowing her brow. "The thing you said about being promoted? Genius! Genius. He completely fell for it."

"I was serious. I'm looking at a $250,000 fine and five years in jail," I said. "That changes things."

"Promote you to editor? No, no way."

"Then I quit, and you're screwed." I start to walk off. "Bye-bye, Rachel."

"Quinn!"

"It really has been a slice of heaven."

"Quinn, Quinn! Fine, fine. I'll make you editor. Fine," she says. "If you do the Alaska weekend and the immigration interview, I will make you editor. Happy?"

I retrace my steps so I'm standing a foot away from her. "And not in two years. Right away."

"Fine."

"And you'll publish my manuscript."

She narrows her eyes. "Ten thousand copy first—"

"Twenty thousand copies, first run." When she nods, I continue. "We'll tell my family about our engagement when I want and how I want."

She huffs at me. "Fine."

"Now, ask me nicely."

"'Ask you nicely' what?"

I smirk. "Ask me nicely to marry you, Rachel."

"What does that mean?"

"You heard me. On your knee."

She glares at me. "Fine." She takes my hand and lowers herself to the ground, kneeling on the dirty city streets. "Does this work for you?"

"Oh, I like this. Yeah." I chuckle.

She sighs and tosses her hair over her shoulder. "Will you marry me?"

"No." She groans. "Say it like you mean it."

"Quinn?"

I smile. "Yes, Rachel?"

"Sweet Quinn?"

"I'm listening."

"Would you please, with cherries on top, marry me?"

I pretend to mull it over. "Okay. I don't appreciate the sarcasm, but I'll do it. See you at the airport tomorrow."

"Good," she says, and reaches out for a hand, which I don't offer this time. As I walk away, I look behind me, catching sight of her struggling to get up in a tight skirt and three inch stilettos. I shake my head and chuckle. That is my fiancée, of all people. At least she's pretty. Even if you hated her guts, you had to admit, she was gorgeous.