"That was—I had something in my eye."
"For five minutes?"
"It was a persistent irritant."
She laughs, and the sound cuts through the wind. "I love that about you, you know. How you pretend you don't feel things when you feel everything."
The ring box in my pocket suddenly feels heavier.
"Tomorrow's going to be perfect," she continues, not noticing my hesitation. "Roman and Calli deserve perfect. And then we get Quebec City. Christmas. Just us."
Just us.
The words echo in my head, mixing with Babushka's advice and Roman's skepticism and my own growing certainty that the plan—the careful, calculated, controlled plan—might not be the right plan at all.
"What are you thinking about?" Harper asks, tilting her head. "You have that look."
My jaw tenses, skin humming as I think of a lie. "I'm thinking about tomorrow. About Roman. About how he's managed to do something I never thought he'd do."
"Get married?"
"Trust someone enough to get married." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Roman's always been the one who plays it safe. And then Calli happened, and he just—let go. Trusted it. Trusted her."
"Sounds familiar," Harper says softly.
She steps closer, her hands finding their way inside my coat, resting against my chest. We stand there, the ocean crashing behind us, the wind whipping around us, and all I can think about is the ring in my pocket and the fact that Harper is right here, right now, and maybe the perfect moment isn't the one I've been planning.
Maybe it's this one.
"We should head back," I say, my voice as gritty as the sand beneath our feet. "You're freezing."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. I'm not letting you freeze out?—"
She kisses me before I can finish the sentence, rising up on her toes, her cold hands framing my face.
It starts gentle—a soft press of lips—but then her fingers thread through my hair and I'm pulling her closer, my hands gripping her waist through the thick coat, and gentle becomes something else entirely.
Something urgent.
Something that makes me forget about the cold and the wind and the fact that we're standing on a beach in twenty-degree weather.
By the time I pull back, my pulse is pounding and damn near in my throat.
"Okay," Harper says, her voice shaky. "Now we should definitely head back."
"Agreed."
But neither of us moves.
"Victor, maybe we?—"
I kiss her again, harder this time, my body pressing against hers, and she whimpers, pulling me closer.
"We're—" she manages between kisses, "—going to freeze to death?—"
"No longer care."
