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I followed their gaze out the window, across the street. There, a man in a suit leaned against the door of a shiny black car. An expensive looking car. He was impossibly gorgeous. Clean shaven, with his hair slicked back. He wasn’t smiling—he looked serious. Anxious.
And his eyes were on me.
“Yes! They’re filming over by the Commissariat House!”
I stood, my heart thudding.
He was here. Mitchell was here, in Newfoundland, looking at me.
“Who is he?” one of the women said. “Maybe that guy on that show…”
“Prince Charming,” I said, stepping out from my seat.
I ran. I shoved through the door into the freezing cold evening, not feeling the temperature at all. Mitchell was already across the street, and then, I was in his arms, spinning around, crying, laughing, and calling him a damn fool.
“I couldn’t let you come here alone, firecracker,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to mine.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I said through my tears. “We don’t make sense.”
“We’ll make it make sense.”
“What about the fact that we live on opposite sides of the country?”
“I have a jet.”
“I don’t want to fly to see you!”
“Then I’ll move to you.”
“What about your work…”
“Winona,” he said, lowering me to my feet. “All I know is I can’t live without you.”
“And I without you,” I whispered, knowing in my bones it was true.
“Then everything else we can figure out tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, a million years from now.
I smiled, teary-eyed. “Okay,” I whispered. “Now you better kiss me, Prince Charming.”
“As you wish,” Mitchell said, and pressed his lips to mine.
“You’re really going to make me do this?” Mitchell asked. Around us, the music thudded as loud as the raucous crowd. The man before me had to be seven feet tall, with long mutton chops, ruddy red cheeks, and a massive dead fish in both hands.
“It’s tradition!” I laughed.
“What about you?”
“You come from away, Mitch, not me.”
Come from away—the catchall term for anyone not born and raised on the island of Newfoundland. “Listen,” he said. “You haven’t lived here in—“
I threw Mitchell a look so searing he clapped his hand on his mouth. He was three sheets to the wind already—a commonplace occurrence down here on a Saturday night.
Luckily I’d been drinking soda water—I was still feeling like a bundle of nerves, and wanted my head on straight. Plus, it looked like I’d be the one getting us home tonight.
The crowd cheered as Mitch took a piece of bologna the pretty barman’s assistant handed him. He swallowed it down with a swig of beer. “Revolting!”
