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“But if we’re doing this, we’re going to be all-the-way engaged,” he says with new passion in his tone. “No otherwise, no partial, no halfway about it.”
Out of nowhere, he drops down to one knee. I gasp. My hand flies to my chest. My heart is beating so fast.
He reaches for my other hand. I’m shaking.
“Ever since I met you at the bar, I’ve been captivated by you. You came in and all I could think about was when you would show up again. I knew I had to ask you out. I had to see you,” he says, and that feels all true. “And when you accidentally sent me those love poems, it was like a sign.”
Oddly enough, that feels true, too, even though it’s not. But the way he gazes at me with utter adoration makes my heart stutter. I’m only vaguely aware that from ten feet away his grandmother is taking pictures of us.
“It was a sign for you to ask me out,” I whisper, as if talking louder could break this magic spell.
“I’m so glad I did. Because these last two months with you have been fantastic,” he says.
Wow. He’s doing all the work, crafting the backstory of this fake romance, and I am here for his effort.
“Getting to know you. Taking you around the city. Falling for you,” he says and my romance-loving soul does a little dance. “That time we went on the ferry ride and had our first kiss.”
“What a kiss,” I say, mesmerized by this tale. By his hand on mine, too, the warmth of his palm, the gentle stroke of his fingers.
“I’ll never forget it,” he says, eyes locked on me with heat and, perhaps, genuine affection.
“Then there was the date at the art museum when you showed me your favorite artist.”
Oh! It’s my turn. “Roy Lichtenstein.”
His grin widens. “Yes. That guy. I love the way you love him.”
“His style enchants me.”
Gage’s mesmerizing eyes hold my gaze like he doesn’t want to let go. “You enchant me.”
For a few dangerous seconds, I believe in this fairy tale. I want to believe in it so badly. “That time we went to the tea gardens was magical.”
“I can’t stop thinking about that day either,” he says, and it’s like we’re swaying in the kitchen to a slow love song. We’re moving seamlessly with each other through this make-believe romance. “I could have listened to your stories all day.”
“I liked hearing yours when you took me to the game,” I say.
“And I learned you’re a hardcore football fan,” he says, getting it right on the first guess.
“I sure am.”
“But I think you should like baseball better.”
“I like it so much better now, especially that time we went to the park late at night with a softball and you set me up at home plate.”
“Then ran out to the mound and showed off my best pitch.”
“It was a softball,” I tease.
“And you hit it right to me.” He runs his thumb along the outside of my hand, his touch like electricity, sending sparks through my whole body. “Then, you ran to the pitcher’s mound and I scooped you up in my arms and kissed you and told you I’d never had such a wonderful time with a woman.”
His touch melts me. His words make me feel tingly. The look in his eyes, the commitment, the way he’s willing to make this business engagement work makes my heart pound.
Gage reaches into his pocket, and I tremble with excitement. From several feet away, Margo takes another photo, then moves closer, snapping more.
My smile takes over my face. My eyes turn a little wet.
Gage opens a box. It’s cream, faded, a little worn. It looks like the kind you’d find at a vintage shop. The kind of box that has seen lives and stories.
