“I’d appreciate that. But don’t mention to your brother that the idea came from me, or he’ll probably burn your entire archive on principle.”
That makes me laugh, easing the tension.
“Callum isn’t that terrible. He’s just very protective.”
“That’s a diplomatic way of saying he’d kill me in my sleep if he had the chance.”
“Only if he could make it look like an accident,” I reply with a teasing smile.
We head back toward the shop, discussing my initial ideas more lightly. To my surprise, Alistair is receptive to my suggestions of incorporating more traditional elements, while I find myself considering some of his modern ideas with less resistance than I would have expected.
“What about exposed stone walls, but with modern lighting to highlight the texture?” I sketch quickly in my notebook.
“I like that,” he says, leaning over my shoulder. “And maybe display units made from reclaimed barrel wood, but with clean, contemporary lines?”
“That’s perfect. Tradition and modernity complementing each other instead of opposing each other.”
“Like our families should have done,” he murmurs, so close I can feel his breath against my neck.
I turn slightly, suddenly aware of how close we are. Our eyes meet, and for a brief, dizzying moment, time seems to stand still. There is something in his gaze—an intensity, an unspoken question—that makes my pulse quicken.
“I… I should start taking precise measurements,” I say, stepping back, unsettled by my own reaction.
“Of course,” he replies, clearing his throat. “I’ll let you work.”
The next few hours pass in focused concentration. I measure, take notes, photograph, sketch—until I have gathered enough material to start building a coherent concept.
Late in the afternoon, as I gather my things, Alistair reappears, looking oddly nervous.
“Do you have everything you need?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply, closing my bag. “I have plenty to work with. I should be able to show you a preliminary concept next week.”
“Perfect… Listen, before you go, I have something for you.”
“For me?”
“Well, not exactly for you,” he adds, frowning slightly as if searching for the right words. “You’ll see.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small navy-blue velvet box. My heart skips a beat. Then another. Then apparently decides to attempt a sprint.
“What is…?”
“I thought it might be useful, given the circumstances,” he says, handing me the box.
My brain overheats instantly.
A ring?
He’s giving me an actual engagement ring? To make our arrangement more believable? Is that really necessary?
“That’s very… thoughtful,” I begin, my words rushing out in a breathless stream, “but don’t you think it’s a bit… sudden? I mean, of course, for our arrangement it makes sense, but it also makes everything so much more real, and I don’t know if I’mready to wear something that symbolic, especially since it’s not—well, you know?—”
“Keira—”
“And then there’s the question of the size. How do you even know my ring size? Did you ask my mother? Oh God, is my mother involved? And what are we supposed to say when people ask how you proposed? We haven’t even prepared that part of the story and?—”
“Keira!” he cuts in more firmly. “Open the box.”
