“We can listen together.” He edged back enough to catch her eye. “But first, I want to say something, and it has to be now.”
She blinked up at him. “Okay.”
“Marry me.”
She couldn’t help it. Even in the midst of real, gut-clenching fear, even with James essentially vibrating with protectiveness and intensity beside her, she had to laugh.
A semi-hysterical laugh, but a real one. “Pretty sure we already did that, baby. Don’t you remember? It was like ten days ago? I had a bouquet and you ate three plates of petits fours?”
“I remember.” His intensity hadn’t diminished. “But that’s not what I mean.”
She licked lips turned suddenly dry. “Whatdoyou mean?”
“We had a wedding, but I didn’t ask you to commit to a real marriage, because that wasn’t the point. Not then. Not for you.” He stroked her cheekbone with a sweep of his thumb. “But I don’t want to be your husband for a year or two, Elizabeth.”
That fragile thing inside her, buried and dormant for so long, unfurled further. Reached for light and oxygen and nourishment, with complete faith all three were there, waiting for her.
The first tear spilled down her cheek. “You don’t?”
“No matter what that phone message says, I want to stay by your side. Not only as your friend and lover. As your husband. Not until you can get your own health insurance, but forever.” He took a shuddering breath. “That’s what I want, and I hope that’s what you want too. So please, Elizabeth. Marry me.”
She wanted to agree. To fall into his arms and weep with joy, and then tackle whatever future awaited them together. But she had to know one thing first.
“Baby…” She cradled his bristly cheek in her palm. “You’re a natural-born fixer and caretaker. Are you sure you don’t just want a new project?”
He leaned his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to fix you. You’re perfect as you are.”
Why couldn’t she stop crying?
“I just want to love you.” He smiled at her, sure and patient. “That’s all.”
She pressed her lips against his. Once. Twice.
“Marry me.” He spoke the words against her mouth. “Be with me forever.”
She sniffled and smiled and said yes. Again.
And then they listened to the message together, hand in hand.
Epilogue
James arrivedhome to find his wife in the master bathroom, buried under a mound of bubbles, a washcloth draped over her beloved face. A sight he’d seen almost daily for years now, but which never failed to both amuse and arouse him.
He set his offering down on the vanity and perched on the edge of the tub. “Honey, how long have you been in here?”
She peeled back a corner of the cloth to peer at him. “I don’t know. Possibly hours.”
“Tough day at work?” He trailed his fingers in the hot water. “Do you need a little pick-me-up?”
Around the holidays, she toiled for endless hours in the back room of her bakery, cranking out an astounding number of pies, decorated cookies, and other delicious seasonal treats on a daily basis. She started her days early and ended them tired, and he always worried about her at this time of year. But winter was his own business’s slow season, so he helped out however he could.
Like now, for instance.
The bubbles near her hip were thinning, he noted with approval. He helped them along with a few swirls of the water, and suddenly he could see Paris, he could see France, he could see his wife’s total lack of underp—
“Apick-me-up, huh?” She removed the washcloth from her face, tossed it onto the bath mat, and eyed his busy fingers in the water. “If I’m interpreting that phrase correctly, consider me completely on board with your plan.”
Then she glanced at the counter, and her eyes widened. “But first, is that…uh…”
