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“That’s rich, coming from you.” I shake my head, but turn off my monitor.
“I am rich. Thanks for noticing.” He smooths his jacket, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Come on, Thompson.”
We make our way out of the office, waving goodbye to Matt, who jumped at the chance to leave Green Media and work for us. The office is in Meatpacking, more of a converted apartment building than a real office. I couldn’t go to work every day in a glass tower like Jonah.
He holds the lobby door open for me, and we slip into the fresh spring air. Without asking, we both head for the High Line. Ever since that night, it’s become our place to walk after work.
“So how has your first month been? Am I a horrible overlord?”
I grin over at him. “Totally horrible. The one-touch espresso machine in the office kitchen is the worst part.”
His mouth lifts. Jonah insisted that he was serious about starting a media division and that there was no one else better positioned to run it than me. We have our own publication, but I’m meeting with a small local paper from New Jersey tomorrow to talk about bringing them in. I’m a little out of my depth, but Jonah insists I’ll learn.
“Nervous for tomorrow?” He bumps me with his shoulder as we near the steps leading up to the High Line.
“A little,” I admit. “This is my first time doing anything like this. Acquisitions and stuff.”
“You know reporting though. You know about running a paper. You’re the best person to talk to them.” Jonah’s quiet confidence buoys me. “Besides, I’ll be there to make sure you don’t fail.”
Warmth spreads through my chest as he ushers me up the steps to the platform, his hand on my back, his palm heating me through my thin jacket.
“I love you,” I say, the words tumbling out.
“I know,” he says, and I choke out a laugh.
“So modest,” I tease.
“Have you thought more about my question?”
I clamp my lips together to keep from laughing. He will not appreciate laughing. “Which one?”
“You know which one,” he growls.
“Jonah.” I stop at one of the benches lining the path. “You asked me to marry you three months in to dating. And again the next month. And then every week. You asked me yesterday at breakfast.”
“You want a bigger proposal? Maybe some fireworks? I could shut down the Met or something.”
“No. No. I liked yesterday’s proposal.” He’d burst out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and demanded I marry him.
“Number forty-nine.” He nods.
“You’re counting?”
“Of course,” he says crisply. “You hated thirty-eight. Far too public. I made a note. It’s okay. I’m very persistent when I want something.”
“I know you are.” I can’t help but smile. “But don’t you think this is a bit much?” I can tell from his expression that he doesn’t think any of this is a bit much.
“No, I don’t.” He raises a brow for me to continue.
“It’s just—” I make a helpless gesture.
“Oh, I see. You want me to ask again.” He glances down, his brow creasing. “I really like these pants. I don’t think dirt stains will come out of the knees.”
“Jonah, no, that’s not—”
“I’m going to keep asking, you know.”
