“Raphael, I want to dance.”
“Your knee.”
She hesitated. Then settled back down. I could not tolerate the look of disappointment that settled in the lines of her face.
I took a deep breath. “One dance, and then we get out of here.”
She beamed up at me as I stood to take her hand. It was a small victory. As I guided her safely out onto the dance floor, I was a little nervous. It’d been years since I’d done this. Would I even remember how?
Yet, as she took my hand and I wrapped the other around her waist and pulled her close, it all came back to me. I held her close, getting lost in her deep brown eyes. I’m not sure how I existed before she came into my life, but I knew one thing for sure. I would do just about anything to make sure she remained my wife.
That feeling solidified right there on the dance floor. It wasn’t a new feeling. I think since the moment I asked her to marry me on a whim across my dining room table, I knew this woman was my match. I’m pretty sure I’d sensed it when I saw her ridiculous purple van pull into my driveway, and I saw her get out. But as I have come to understand who she is and how she moves through the world, everything has become crystal clear.
She is mine, and I will do what it takes to keep her.
I signaled discreetly, and within minutes our car was brought around.
“We’re leaving?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes.”
“But—”
“You agreed to one dance, then we leave. Plus, I have something else planned.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
I helped her into the car carefully, mindful of the dress, mindful of her knee. The city lights streaked past the windows as we drove through downtown Columbus.
We stopped in front of a small storefront tucked between larger buildings. Warm light glowed through the windows, illuminating shelves lined with books.
She frowned slightly.
“A bookstore?”
“Yes.”
The sign above the door read Second Chance Romance. Her breath caught.
Inside, the lights were low and golden. The scent of paper and vanilla candles hung in the air. A small table had been set near the back, between shelves of paperbacks and hardcovers, with white linens, candlelight, and two place settings.
She looked around slowly, reverently. “You did all this?”
“Well, Chandler helped, but it was my idea.”
Her hand tightened on my arm. She turned to me, eyes luminous in the candlelight.
“This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”
The words struck deeper than applause ever had.
I pulled her chair back carefully, ensuring she sat without strain. “I wanted,” I said slowly, choosing precision over flourish, “to take you somewhere that felt like you.”
She reached for my hand across the table.
And as I sat opposite her, surrounded by stories of improbable love and second chances, I realized something quietly undeniable. I did not hate galas. I hated being alone in them.
Tonight, I was not alone. And if I could help it, I would not be again.
