I pull the ring box from my pocket and hold it up to the camera. The diamond catches the firelight. "Right here."
She leans closer to her screen, squinting. "Let me see better."
I angle the box so the ring is more visible. It's simple but stunning—a round diamond in a platinum setting, with a smaller band that I'm planning to have engraved with “Player 1 & Player 2” before Quebec City.
"Is beautiful," she says approvingly. "Harper will cry. Women love crying at proposals."
"That's the goal."
"And you have speech prepared?"
Not ready to give my grandmother ammunition, I choose my words carefully. "I have thoughts."
Through the door, I can hear laughter from the dining room. Someone's giving a toast. Probably one or two of the androids Roman calls board members are doing the traditional rehearsal dinner speech about how they met.
"Thoughts are not speech," Babushka says firmly. "You write it down. You practice. You don't want to stand there like fish with mouth open."
I sigh, settling deeper into the chair. The leather creaks softly. "It's handled, Babushka. Trust me."
Rasputin meows loudly—the bell on his elf hat jingling—and Babushka adjusts the camera so the cat is fully in frame.
"Rasputin says you should propose on Christmas Eve. Under tree. Very romantic."
"Rasputin doesn't talk, Babushka."
"He talks to me. We have understanding." She scratches behind his ears, careful not to dislodge the elf hat. "So. Christmas Eve in Quebec City. You have plan?"
"I have a general plan. Dinner. Somewhere with a view of the old city. Get down on one knee. Ask her to marry me again but this time on purpose."
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney. Outside, the snow is coming down harder now, obscuring the view of the ocean.
"And if she says no?" Babushka asks.
It's a thought I've considered more than once. Technically, Harper and I have been married for two months, and all talk of annulments have disappeared…
Except it's been four days since I showed up at her parents' home. And through chatting with her family and over-eating at her parents' place, we haven't discussed…our future.
Unfortunately, this is the time where someone decides to interrupt.
The door to the old smoking room opens, and I look up to find Roman and Christian standing in the doorway, both in their tuxedos—Roman's perfectly pressed, Christian's somehow already rumpled despite the dinner only being halfway through.
Having lost none of the muscle mass he accumulated after years of football, Roman steps forward like a fullback ready to make a play.
"There you are," he says. "We've been looking for you. You missed the salmon course."
"I was—" I gesture at my phone.
Both of them step fully into the room, and the scent of expensive cologne and wine follows them. Christian closes the door behind them, muffling the sounds of the party.
"He's FaceTiming," Christian observes, crossing to the fireplace and warming his hands. "During our rehearsal dinner. This better be important."
"My rehearsal dinner," Roman corrects, settling into the chair across from me. "And please tell me you're not having phone sex with Harper while forty of my closest friends eat seventy-dollar salmon."
"What? No?—"
"Because that would be both disrespectful and also kind of impressive from a time-management perspective."
They both lean over to look at my phone screen.
