“We’ll celebrate your first role in a film tonight,” he tells me, pressing his head to mine.
I pull back softly, touching his chin.
“Better idea—we’ll celebrate our love.” Shaking my head so my hair flips, I add, “But right now, I’m needed in wardrobe.”
His laughter echoes in my ears as I leave the set. I choose this gorgeous old dress, historical down to the last detail, and sit through several photo sets.
Weeks later, I’m in that dress again for the movie’s final scene.
I’ll never be an actress, but I agree to participate in the fade to black because Ridge insists I’ll be the only love fit for him.
The scene is just me, standing at an old well, drawing up a bucket of water, when Ridge appears in the distance.
I drop the rope instantly and go racing toward him through the tall grasses.
He rides in, jumps off his horse, and catches me in his arms, lifting me high into the glowing light. The scene ends with us kissing, wild and carefree and worth every bit of the PG-13 rating this movie is likely to get.
Some would call it cheesy, ridiculous, over-the-top.
But me?
I just call it living with the wish that came true.
My hero, my guardian, my Romeo who saves me, lifts me up, and pieces me together a little better, every last day of our lives.