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“My grandmother gave me the ring.”
My throat catches. “She did?”
“Yes. She’s held on to it since my grandfather passed more than thirty years ago,” he says, and even though the loss was long ago, my heart aches for her. I send her a look of sympathy, of love too, then turn my attention back to the man on one knee. “She wants you to have it. I want you to have it,” he says, and he sounds so earnest, so vulnerable, I barely know what to do with this wonder in my chest. This hope in my heart. None of this is real, but it’s all so deliciously surreal.
“Would you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“Yes!” I say, shouting it, feeling the exhilaration of an engagement in this moment, which is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. And yet, I’m thrilled.
Even when he adds, “And for the next three months, my”—he stops, clears his throat, gives a tilt of his head that says we’re in on this ruse—“fiancée.”
It’s a no big deal business deal. It’s an outfit of the day. It’s an act.
But when he slides the ring on my finger, the overflow of emotions is too real. I don’t think you’re supposed to feel achy or hopeful over a fake engagement. I gaze at the vintage ring, a tiny diamond set in a gold filigree band that was worn by someone in his family, someone who loves him, someone who already cares for me.
Gage stands, cups my cheek, and drops a quick but possessive kiss to my lips. It’s a tasteful kiss, but it’s a kiss that says to the world she’s mine.
It’s a claim.
I grip his shirt to hold on. His heart beats steady, loud, like a drum. His breath shudders. His stubble tickles me as he gives me a kiss for the camera.
When he breaks the kiss, he asks with a shrug, “Our last kiss?”
It sounds like that prospect devastates him as much as it devastates me. “Yes.”
A few seconds later, Margo is by my side, saying, “I guess I didn’t need that cheek kiss after all. These were great and you’re both naturals. But I’m a damn good photographer too.” She waggles the phone like it’s a treasure. “We’ve got these for whenever you need social proof of your official engagement. We can say these were taken last week.”
Like that, the romantic moment unspools. It’s time for business. As she wanders away, giving us space, I try to clear my thoughts. I rewind to a few minutes ago when I arrived. Something’s sticking with me.
“Were you on the phone at all?” I ask. “When I arrived?”
Smiling, he shakes his head. “No. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Well, you did.”
He drops a kiss to my cheek. “Get used to it, cupcake. Your fiancé is full of surprises.”
He sure is.
15
MY DARLING FIANCÉ
Elodie
There’s no time to linger in this fizzy feeling over the next few days. We’ve got a pop-up shop to open. Kenji’s handling Elodie’s Chocolates in the mornings so Gage and I can deal with all the things from our business license to glassware and plates, to décor, and now to signage.
We’ve been spending Thursday afternoon in Loretta’s Signs off Webster Street, picking out option after endless option to adorn the glass facade.
“I think you’ll like this one. I’m pretty damn pleased with it,” Loretta says in a gravelly voice like a country singer that fits her name. She fits the vibe too, all big hair and a checked boobalicious shirt with rhinestone buttons. She spins the tablet screen around, showing us a Special Edition: Cocktails & Chocolate mock-up in bright, vibrant neon pink. “Looks like neon. But made with LED. Perfect, since neon’s making a comeback. Something I can never say about my ex-husband.”
I laugh. Yup, pure country. “Well, neon deserves it. I am obsessed with neon and this,” I say, then turn to Gage. “What about you?”
He studies the screen with an unreadable expression. “I like it,” he says, but he couldn’t have less emotion if he tried.
I swat his arm, like a fiancée would do. “You don’t have to be obsessed with it but you can’t deny it’s amazing.” Where is his exuberance? This script, this color, this look. “It’s sexy and inviting. It’s fun and pretty. It’s beckoning.”
Could I pitch him any harder?
