“You’d technically be dying from stupidity, but it would be very sweet.”
Grinning, he lets me pull him toward the house.
We’re almost to the porch, when I hear my mother's voice from inside.
"Jean-Luc! Victor is here! Set another place for lunch!"
Victor pulls back, laughing. "I think your mother just spotted us.”
“What do you mean ‘just’? She’s probably been watching us for the last ten minutes.”
He snorts. “I feel like I’m being adopted into your family like a stray cat.”
"You absolutely are. We like to call it our 'Beaumont Collection Program for Emotionally Available CEOs.' You're our first acquisition."
"Good. Because I don't want to be anywhere else."
We head inside, out of the cold, into the warmth of my parents' house.
Into home.
Together.
29
PROPOSAL INTERRUPTS REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING
VICTOR
Five days before Christmas, and I haven't gotten any better at surprising the people I give a damn about.
Because it's Friday evening—four days after Harper and I reconciled, not to mention the night before my best friend Roman's wedding—and I'm hiding in a gentlemen's smoking room at an oceanfront estate in the Hamptons, FaceTiming with my grandmother and her cat.
This is what my life has become.
The room is all dark wood paneling and leather club chairs, smelling of old money and cigars even though no one's smoked in here for decades.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see snow falling over the Atlantic. The ocean is dark and restless beyond the snow-covered dunes, waves crashing in a rhythm I can hear even through the glass, while inside, a fire crackles in the marble fireplace.
Orange firelight illuminates the Persian rug beneath my feet. The room is warm—almost too warm after the controlled climate of the main dining area—and I've loosened my tie, top button undone, jacket discarded on the nearest chair.
And just fifty feet away from the doorway, my best friend's rehearsal dinner is in full swing. Forty guests enjoying a seven-course meal in the estate's formal dining room.
Champagne flowing. Toasts being made.
It's exactly the elegant and expensive celebration that Roman and his soon-to-be wife Calli deserve.
And I'm in here, on my phone, getting marital advice from an eighty-two-year-old Russian woman and her judgmental cat dressed as a Christmas elf.
"Vitenka, you are being ridiculous," Babushka says from my phone screen, her face taking up most of the frame. Behind her, I can see Rasputin wearing a tiny green elf costume complete with a hat that has a bell on it. "Of course you propose in Quebec City. Is romantic. Is Christmas. What could be wrong?"
"We're already married," I point out, adjusting my position in the leather armchair. "Legally. That's what could be wrong."
"Pah. Vegas wedding doesn't count. Was drunk. Was accident. This time is on purpose, yes?"
"Yes, but?—"
"No buts. You have ring with you?"
