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“Treat her the way you would a dog that’s been kicked one time too many,” Raven had suggested one night while Wasp ran off to show her nieces and nephew her old favorite show as a kid—without telling Raven, of course, that her favorite show as a kid was Unsolved Mysteries, and that the kids would likely have nightmares for a week. “She needs time and consistency and trust. I promise you, she is not as cold and hard as she can seem on the outside. She had a huge heart. She’s just afraid someone is going to crush it.”
Luckily, Leonard had taught me a thing or two about healing and patience. Clearly, one of the previous owners had been a loving woman and an abusive man, making him distrust me. But after weeks and then months, we were finally able to be in the same vicinity of each other without there being any bloodshed.
I learned not to take offense when Wasp insisted on keeping Wanda parked in the back of our property. Or that she didn’t take her website down, just slapped a notice on there saying she wasn’t taking any clients at this time.
Life had taught her that men couldn’t be relied upon.
I had to show her that I could.
Which meant I had to take my time, wait it out, not rush her into anything.
Which was why I was still hanging onto the ring.
But my fingers reached into that pocket, opened the pouch, grabbed the ring.
It was finally time.
We had flown out to Italy the week before, Leonard riding in a carry-on under Wasp’s seat since she insisted we didn’t need to take the private jet each time we traveled, that flying commercial would keep me humble and in-touch with the common man.
We had no plan in mind. We never did when we traveled. Someone would throw out a name of a destination, and then we would pack, we would head out, we would hit the streets, see what there was to explore.
I’d been everywhere five times over, but everything was still new for Wasp. And I never got sick of seeing the world through her eyes.
So far, we’d spent a lot of our time seeing monuments and museums and eating every single classic dish known to mankind.
But I’d finally managed to get her to agree to take the yacht away from Florence where we’d been spending most of our time.
We were on our way to one of the most romantic destinations in the world.
Cinque Terre.
It was a collection of villages in a place where cars were banned and the seafood was some of the best in the world. Along with the pesto. Which we’d eaten a giant pile of for dinner before hiking through the towns, hitting a few of the shops.
Wasp had long since stopped fighting me when I insisted on buying her souvenirs. All our mantles at home, our bookcases, our shelves, were riddled with little trinkets we’d picked up from around the world.
Colorful Maasai beads from Kenya.
Castañuelas—finger clackers—from Spain.
Nesting dolls from Russia.
Niren Zhang painted figurines from China.
So far, we’d only managed to get to seven countries. Which was not many by my traveling standards, but a lot for Wasp. She’d traveled extensively in our homeland, but claimed it was different, that while there were always smaller cultures to explore, it was nothing like visiting a different country. She liked to take longer, less frequent trips, to be able to sink her feet in, to tour the place like a local.
Besides, we had a home to take care of now, friends that liked to see us on a more regular basis. It was surprisingly nice to have roots.
Wasp had chosen Italy as our next destination.
I had been the one to get the yacht to come out, to meet us in Cinque Terre. Because I knew it was the perfect place.
And I knew it was the perfect time.
I knew she was ready.
Because when we’d mistakenly walked into a little wedding dress shop, since my Italian wasn’t nearly as good as my French or Spanish, and the woman had mistaken her for a customer, had draped her head in a gauzy lace veil, and led her over to the mirror to look at herself, her eyes had gone dreamy.
Yes, Wasp’s eyes.
Dreamy.
Another set of words that didn’t seem like they went together.
Yet, there it was.
A dream in her eyes.
And that dream was to wear that veil and walk down an aisle toward me, one of her arms-dealing brothers at each of her sides.
It was a dream I’d held for a year now.
She’d eventually seen the look in her reflection, had whipped off the veil, and rushed out of the shop. I’d stayed behind, paying for the veil, asking the proprietor to have it wrapped in something plain and then shipped to our hotel.
