Cold, expensive champagne, soaking the sheets, my chest, everything.
Harper freezes, hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Then she starts laughing.
"I'm so sorry—I can't believe?—"
"That's number three," I say, wiping champagne off my face.
"What?"
"Three liquids you've spilled on me so far. Tomato juice on the plane. Cold coffee in my office. Champagne at a Hamptons estate." I look at her, dripping and ridiculous. "I'm starting to see a pattern."
"I swear I'm not doing it on purpose!"
"Are you sure? Because the evidence suggests otherwise."
She's laughing so hard she can barely stand. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—but you should see your face?—"
"I'm covered in champagne."
"Expensive champagne," she amends. "Roman said this was from his private collection."
Harper sets down the glasses and grabs a towel from the bathroom, trying to help clean me up but she's still laughing too hard to be effective.
"Okay," she says finally, catching her breath. "New rule. I'm not allowed near liquids when you're in the vicinity."
"Probably wise."
"Although—" She looks at me, eyes sparkling. "It does make things interesting."
"Your version of interesting is going to get us banned from every nice hotel in America."
"Worth it."
I pull her down onto the bed—the dry part—and kiss her.
"You're insane," I say against her lips.
"You proposed during sex. We're both insane."
"Fair point."
We eventually clean up the champagne situation, change the sheets, and find a new bottle in the minibar.
This time, I open it.
"To Roman and Calli," Harper says, raising her glass slowly.
"To Roman and Calli," I repeat.
We drink, and then Harper sets down her glass, her expression shifting to something more serious.
"Victor?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the nurse. For Dad."
I'd arranged for a Parkinson's specialist nurse to visit Harper's parents twice a week—someone who could help with medication management, physical therapy, and give her mother a break. The bills were being handled through a medical trust I'd set up, because Harper finally—finally—let me help.
