“This is going to take a while.” Gil started playing with her hair, brushing it back off her face, and kissed her again, slowly. “Whatever you have in the oven smells terrific, but if you don’t mind—”
“It’s chicken tetrazzini, the oven is already on warm, and it will keep just fine.”
* * *
An hour later, the tetrazzini finally made it to the table. They toasted each other and drank. “Perfect, absolutely perfect. What more can I ask? We made love, we’re about to eat my amazing tetrazzini. A perfect end to the day.”
He looked oddly excited, almost hyper, which wasn’t like him. “Gil, when do you have to ship out again? Don’t tell me it’s tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, no, I’m here for at least two weeks. I have some things I want to do.” He looked away, toward the door, and she felt a jolt, a strange disconnect. What was he thinking? What was going on here?
He pushed his plate away.
“Isabella, I—”
The doorbell rang.
Gil waved toward it. “Ignore that. I want to talk to you. I missed you, Isabella, so much. I don’t want to be apart from you like this ever again.”
Her smile probably lit up the whole room, maybe even the block. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want to make things official. You’re everything I have ever wanted. You’re, well, you’re everything to me. You make me so happy.”
The doorbell dinged again, and he looked at his watch. He cursed, unusual for him. “They’re early.”
“Who’s early? Gil, what’s going on?”
Gil dropped to one knee, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a diamond ring that glittered and winked in the light.
Isabella gasped, then dropped down next to him, threw her arms around him.
“Yes!”
Gil started to laugh. “I didn’t ask you yet.”
“So ask already,” she said, nuzzling into his chest. He did smell of the sea, and hope, and vanilla and something cedar, and of her and them, and she was never going to forget this moment, never going to forget how his beard tickled her cheek.
Gil put a hand under her chin, drew her face up so she could see his eyes. He whispered, “Will you marry me? Because I want to marry you, Isabella.”
“Yes, I will marry you.”
He kissed her, a contract sealed, then put the ring on her finger. It was a perfect fit, he’d borrowed one of her rings a month ago to make sure the size was going to be right. He was so happy he thought he might burst, and Isabella was moving her hand this way and that in the light to make the diamond sparkle.
The door rang again.
Laughing now, Gil shouted, “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”
“You probably have some weird mariachi band out there, ready to burst in and serenade us, don’t you?”
“Not exactly, no. This particular moment was meant for us alone.” He kissed her on the nose and went to the door. “But now—”
He flung open the door. He hadn’t hired a mariachi band but a photographer to show them photos of the engagement from the video camera he’d stashed in the kitchen, then take a few more for posterity. He’d been planning this for weeks. The photographer was early, but who cared?
But it wasn’t the photographer on the other side of the door. He didn’t recognize the man standing there—tall and swarthy with round gold glasses, a brown beard, and sandy-brown hair. But Isabella put her hand on Gil’s back and said, “Dr. Bruce? What are you doing here?”
Roman Ardelean had flowers in his hands and a wide, welcoming smile on his face. He took in the scene—the candles, the dinner dishes on the table, the flowers in their blue vase. His smile faded. “I wasn’t expecting you to have company.”
Gil stuck out a hand. “Gil Brooks. I’m Isabella’s fiancé. Well, her fiancé since two minutes ago.”