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But not even mint tea and the sunrise and the Acropolis could distract her, for she turned around and he was like some naked Greek god in the bathroom, standing with his back to her, as if he was doing a scientific experiment with a pipette, when really he should just dunk it in.
She could see his expression.
His eyes were on the stick.
She’d have three minutes of this—or was it five? He would feel her looking soon and fake a smile.
But then she looked at the mirrors. They were cracked, and rather than fix them he adored them and didn’t hide the cracks. And she thought of the sooty ceiling that he kept, rather than paint over, because it made him smile. Then she caught her own reflection in the damaged mirror, saw herself sitting on the bed, and the chain around her neck, and she thought of that line she had held on to.
And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten.
And she wasn’t scared because this really was love, she knew. Real love. Coming now...ready or not.
‘Roula!’
She heard his excited shout. It was so absolute she jumped.
‘You’re pregnant!’
It was as if they had been trying for five years, and yet they had not even been trying. Galen was swearing and panicking and delighted.
She was in love, and pregnant, and as he kissed her all over there was just one more thing—and he’d made her brave enough to say it. To state her needs upfront.
‘I want a ring, Galen.’
He stopped mid-kiss.
‘And a wedding,’ Roula said.
‘Roula, I have very strong opinions—’
‘Well, I don’t want to be Roula Kyrios or Roula Dra—’
‘Marry me,’ he said hurriedly—because that name would never be said in this bedroom. ‘It would seem I do believe in marriage after all.’
And the most illogical thing was that as he got down on one knee he actually did.
