Our first Christmas together.
I glanced up at Sebastian. He was studying me with an intensity that was disconcerting.
“What?” I asked.
He set down his guitar case. “That house represents so much to me, Maggie.”
“You’ve put a lot of work into it.”
“Aside from that. It represents safety. Acceptance. Love. I got all that from you the day I met you. It all grew into something even bigger in that house. The house grew into a home, the town became not just the place I live, but the hometown I always wanted. All because of you. Your trust.” He ran a finger down my cheek. “Your love.”
I smiled, feeling the tears building. “You did the same for me, Sebastian. You made coming back here coming home. You are my home.”
“Tell me you know it’s enough. That you will always be enough. If I had nothing else but you, this little house, and the life we have together, it would still be all I want. If I get to sell my music, that’s just an added bonus. The dreams I had of making it big, walking onstage to thousands of fans, they were just that—a dream. One I no longer need.”
“Why? What changed?”
He shrugged self-consciously. “Part of it was to prove to my dad I wasn’t the failure he said I was. I don’t have to prove anything anymore, because in your eyes, I’m not that.”
“You never were. Your dad was wrong.”
“Your belief in me astounds me. It always will.” He smiled. “I was sort of hoping maybe you might promise to remind me of that belief—” he swallowed, looking nervous “—for the rest of your life? Let me follow you wherever you go, Maggie. Because where you are is home.”
My breath caught in my throat. Sebastian lowered himself to one knee and offered me a small box. “It’s not much, my Angel, but it would make me the happiest man in the world if you would wear this ring and agree to marry me.”
I covered my mouth, tears gathering in my eyes. I could only nod as Sebastian beamed, standing and wrapping me in his arms. I sobbed out his name, and he hugged me close.
“You shouldn’t be crying, Maggie. You haven’t seen the ring yet.”
I stepped back, laughing at his drollness. I didn’t need to see the ring. All I wanted was him. Still, he opened the box, showing me the delicate ring inside. The emerald twinkled in the overhead streetlights, the tiny diamonds around it flashing their brilliance.
“Mr. Archer, the jeweler, said not every engagement ring is a diamond. I thought you might like this one since you always say you love my eyes. But we can exchange—”
I cut him off. “It’s perfect.”
He slipped it on my finger and kissed my hand. “So are you.”
“I’ll remind you of that in a few years.”
He bent and kissed me. “You do that, Angel. You do that.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SEBASTIAN
I strummed my guitar, getting ready to head to the stage. It was a full house tonight, and the front table held the people I cared about the most. I hadn’t played in a couple of weeks, having been busy with negotiations to sell some of my music. I’d had to fly to Toronto to attend a few meetings. I was glad to be back in this small place, the quiet and slower pace far more suited to my head than the craziness Toronto held. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, and I knew Eleanor and Maggie had been cooking up a storm for the meal. Tonight, I would celebrate my contract, my music, and being home.
I stepped on the stage, smiling good-naturedly at the applause. I’d played a few songs, enjoying the interaction with the crowd, when I saw him.
My father was there. Sitting at the edge of the bar, scowling at me. I never expected to see him here, of all places, and my smile slipped from my face before I could stop it. I quickly forced it back, bending my head to strum a little and gather my wits. When I glanced up again, his distaste was evident on his face. I was immediately both angry and wary.
Why was he there?
Maggie saw the look on my face, and, glancing around, her gaze found my father. She leaned over and spoke quietly to Patrick, who turned and met my father’s gaze. The disgust on his face became anger when he saw Patrick as well as his mother, Connie, who was visiting that weekend. She was a regular visitor to Riverstoke and part of our small circle of adopted family. I adored her and loved hearing stories about my grandfather.
I ended my set early, stood, and I approached my father, knowing many eyes were on us.
He looked the same as he always did—his posture rigid, shoulders set, and his demeanor cold. Although Patrick did look like Connie, I saw a slight resemblance between him and my father, but whereas Patrick was warmth personified, my father was icy and cold. I tried to remember kind-heartedness or caring, but instead, I only remembered his distance. I was surprised to find the longing for his approval gone, and in its place, complete indifference.