Better enjoy this one while it lasts.
Shannon makes sure I do.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Proposal...
Le Portmanteau is designed to make you feel just a little bit like a country bumpkin, even if you’re a Parisian sophisticate with a world palate and the budget of a sheik.
That’s why it’s Jessica Coffin’s favorite restaurant, if you believe her Twitter feed.
Not that I read her feed. That’s Grace’s job. I just get executive briefings now.
Grace made sure Jessica is not here tonight. Having her make a sudden appearance the night I propose to Shannon would not just be catastrophic, it might land my future fiancée in a jail cell for a night.
Which would put a slight damper on our celebration.
Self-preservation has many incarnations.
While I had already cleared my day well in advance, knowing and preparing the perfect proposal, Shannon is running late. I’m standing here in the waiting area tapping my toes like a kid at his first formal dance with a date who’s about to stand him up, but he doesn’t know it yet.
But Shannon won’t no-show.
Right?
Of course not. Women don’t wake you up like that in the morning and then leave you hanging twelve hours later.
Besides, four syllables guarantee she’s coming:
tiramisu
There is something magical about that dessert. It’s like saying the word “breasts” in the company of straight men. “Tiramisu” is a siren call to women.
She’ll be here.
I’m on my phone, checking for client email, when the phone rings. Not with a text, but an actual call. That means it’s either Grace or Dad, because everyone else texts.
This is a number I don’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Declan McCormick?”
“Yes.”
A relieved sigh. “Ah. This is Chandra Mobu, from Le Portmanteau.”
I look around, but the only person who works here is speaking with a couple who walked in and are expecting a table without reservations. Amateurs. I—er, Grace—booked four months ago.
“Yes?”
“Giuseppe was the person who arranged your proposal tonight, and he’s not here.”
A cold rush fills my veins. “Excuse me?”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. McCormick. I’m stepping in to help, and Giuseppe gave me your instructions. He caught the chicken pox from his grandson, and—”
What’s up with all these cases of adult chicken pox? First Angelina Jolie, now Giuseppe? Why is chicken pox suddenly ruining some of the most important events in the world?
“Do you have all of my instructions?” I demand, clipped and tight. One problem with relying on other people to help you: they’re human. It’s an inherent weakness and it’s unfailingly annoying. “The toothpicks, the ring, the tiramisu, the Champagne, the—”
“I assure you, we have his directions, and we will make certain this is a proposal you will never forget, and one with great fanfare and excitement.”
“Damn right.” I shut off the phone and take a deep breath, fists tight, jaw ready to cut glass. The jeweler’s box rubs against my thigh, heavy and light as can be.
Like my heart.
Shannon picks that very moment to walk in.
Somehow, she manages to change time itself. All of the air in the room halts its circulation, crowding around her as she looks at me with an apologetic smile. Her hair brushes against her shoulders, hips moving like she’s on a runway and I’m the only person in the audience watching her.
Two hands start clapping inside my chest. My throat goes dry. My entire existence revolves around the fact that she is here, right now, and I am about to ask her to share the rest of her life with me. To love me and believe in me and make children with me. To grow old together if we’re lucky, and to ache with the pain of loss if we’re not.
I need her to be the center of my universe because, frankly, I don’t have a choice. She’s it, whether she says yes tonight or not.
Please say yes.
Because she has no idea what’s about to happen, she’s remarkably normal, putting her arms around me and stretching up to plant a quick kiss on my lips. “Hi, honey! I’m so sorry I’m late. We had a problem with that new online accounting marketing campaign, and the client was horrendous. As if it’s my fault the spokeswoman they chose for the ads turns out to have nude photos of her circulating all over because her psycho Romanian ex-”
She stops talking and looks at me in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re gray. And not as in Christian Grey.”
“I’m fine.”
“Declan, you look like the poster child for how to spot a heart attack.” She pulls me back to the chair I was just sitting in.
“I’m fine.” My hands feel like ice cubes and there’s a lump in my throat the size of China. This is real. This is happening. My confidence is gone. It vanished without a trace. This internal case of the nerves isn’t because I’m worried she’ll say ‘no.’
It’s because I realize she’s about to say ‘yes.’ The magnitude of my love for her can’t be captured in a number, nor an exponent, nor by any known mathematical equation. It’s wider than the galaxy and bigger than any known dimension.
The enormity of who we are and how we’re about to join is so vast. I didn’t know I could feel this much love for someone.
For her.
“Put your head between your knees.”
“I’d rather put my head between your knees.”