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My little pirate, I thought with a goofy grin.
“Tate!” I called out as I entered the house, dropping my keys on the front table.
Even with our open floor plan, he was nowhere in sight. Weird.
“Tate?” I repeated.
A voice replied, “I’m in the back yard.”
I shook my head. I should’ve figured — he loved the back yard, and had installed an enormous fireplace, at which we often sat with our friends drinking wine, playing music, and telling stories.
“I’m gonna getcha!” I laughed back, following the sound of his voice to the back door.
I heard a sound of a violin bow striking a string. What a romantic. He often turned on some music for us. His favorite was the old stuff, like what Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers used to dance to. Tate was so much softer than I’d thought on first glance.
But when I came outside, I discovered that the sound wasn’t from our speakers but from an actual string quartet.
Tate was seated at a white linen-covered table right next to the small pond in our backyard, dozens of candles and flower petals surrounding him. He was wearing a white T-shirt and the jeans he knew I liked, and no shoes. Damn, I loved him.
“What gives?” I said, gesturing to the setup.
“You like?”
He rose from the table as I moved forward, pulling out the chair opposite him so that I could take a seat. I lowered myself, gazing around in awe as the string quartet picked up their melody.
“Of course I like it, you crazy man. What’s the occasion?”
Tate reached into an ice bucket and poured me a glass of Champagne, fresh and cold.
“It’s the unofficial one-year anniversary of our relationship.”
“Nu-uh! That’s like ten days from now, the day I was—”
“Kidnapped by Mac?”
“Yeah.”
He shook his head. “That’s our official one. But I count our real anniversary as the moment I laid eyes on you, when I knew you were the girl for me.”
“You’re a cornball.”
“Yeah, but you love it.”
I winked. “That I do. That I do.”
With that, a server swooped in to give us our first course.
“You hired servers?” I whispered.
“Don’t worry, I used Giggr.”
I laughed and raised my glass in a toast.
“To us.”
Tate met my glass with a clink and we locked eyes. I could look at his baby blues forever.
The meal was, in short, spectacular. Tate had hired one of the most famous chefs in California, who’d flown to Napa just to prepare the meal for us. I fought my feeling of being totally unworthy of this gorgeous meal, and focused just on enjoying myself and the wonderful company. When Tate did romance, he leaned in hard. What the hell was I going to get him for our official anniversary?!
After several hours — we had so many courses, I lost count — the sun had gone down, and the backyard was illuminated just by the candles.
Tate and I leaned back in our chairs, totally stuffed, as a server emerged with our final course.
“A slice of chocolate cake,” he explained, setting the plates down on the table.
I groaned as the man disappeared. “I can’t eat another bite.”
“Just try it,” Tate insisted. “I’m sure you’re gonna love it.”
Seeing the hopeful expression on his face, the one he wore when he was waiting for my reaction, I sighed with a smile and put my fork into the fluffy folds.
That’s when I felt the metal of my tines hit another, different kind of metal. Something definitively circular.
I looked up from the cake and found Tate on one knee.
