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Realization struck me. “The night we went to Wrigley,” I said. “You’d meant to propose.”
“Yes.”
I thought back to that night. “That’s why everyone was gathered in your office. It wasn’t a ‘feel better’ celebration. It was supposed to have been an engagement party.”
“You should have gotten a ring; instead you were shot. Unexpected metal, either way, but I thought you still deserved a gathering.”
I smiled at him. “Or you didn’t want to waste the champagne.”
“I’m not a troglodyte; it was very good champagne.”
I didn’t try to rein in my adoring grin. “You were going to propose to me at a Cubs game, and you had an engagement party planned. Ethan Sullivan, that nearly makes up for your centuries of imperiousness.”
“It’s neither the first time nor the last time I’ve been romantic, Sentinel. Much like Liam Neeson, I have certain . . . skills.”
He even got the pause right; Luc would have been proud.
“Color me convinced. Ahem. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, what, exactly, did you have planned?”
“A proposal on the big screen.”
“No!” I whined, dropping my forehead to his chest. I loved big-screen sports proposals. And it would have been even better now; the new Cubs screen was enormous.
“You’ll note that even though I was not able to reschedule the screen, I did, in fact, give you Wrigley Field. And then there’s this.” Ethan Sullivan pulled a small burgundy box from his pocket.
I probably looked like a kid on Christmas staring down at it.
Ethan chuckled. “I assume from the awestruck expression on your face that you’d like to see what’s inside?”
“I mean, you went to all the trouble, so . . .”
Ethan flicked it open.
Nestled on a bed of burgundy satin sat a glorious double-diamond ring. The band, so delicate it looked like diamonds had been threaded together on silver string, spiraled around two round diamonds.
It was a toi-et-moi ring. The phrase meant “you and me”—symbolized by the gemstones. Napoleon had given Josephine one. I knew, because I’d researched it for my dissertation before I was made a vampire.
“Damn, Sullivan.”
“I do my research,” Ethan said, sliding the ring from its box. He took my left hand in his free one, slid the ring onto the fourth finger. “Now it’s official.”
He drew me toward him, kissed me good and hard.
“And now,” he said, pulling back and glancing behind me, “we celebrate.”
He turned me around.
Ethan had given me diamonds, Wrigley Field . . . and my family. My grandfather. Mallory and Catcher. Jeff and Fallon. Luc and Lindsey. Margot and Malik. They rushed forward with bottles of Veuve Clicquot and glasses, and threw glittering handfuls of silver confetti that danced in the light. There was a small table in the grass covered with a Cubs cloth and dotted with snacks.
A man who’d already given me immortality, who’d sacrificed his life to save mine, who’d stood for me and challenged me . . . and on occasion made me utterly and completely crazy, had thrown me a party in Wrigley Field.
Sentinel? Are you all right? You look a bit wan.
I looked back at him, drank in the golden hair and gemlike eyes. He was my recent past, and my eternal future. I’ve never been better. Unless you also happened to grab me one of those Cubs flashlights?
He rolled his eyes.
Mallory flat-out ran toward us and wrapped her arms around me. “You’re getting married! You’re getting married!” She squeezed me tight, her voice a squeak of excitement. She pulled back, her arms on mine. “And not just married. You’re getting married to Darth Sullivan!”
