10. Maura
MAURA
The car takes a left instead of a right.
I glance at Mark, but his profile gives nothing away. Strong jaw set, gray eyes focused on traffic, hands steady on the wheel. The same expression he wears whether he's driving me home or driving me to appointments or driving me anywhere else he's decided I need to be.
"Where are we going?"
"Dinner."
That's all I get. With Mark, that's usually all anyone gets until he's ready to explain, and explanations come when they come. So I settle back in the leather seat and watch Boston blur past the window.
The restaurant is the kind of place that should have a line around the block. Tall windows, soft lighting, the sort of elegance that costs more than my old rent. But when Mark opens my door and takes my hand, when we walk through the entrance, the space is empty.
Every table is set. Candles flicker. White linens, crystal glasses, fresh flowers arranged like someone spent hours getting the details right. But no other diners. No conversation, no clatter of silverware, no background hum of a busy restaurant.
Just us.
My steps slow. My hand tightens in his.
"Mark." My voice sounds strange in all that quiet space. "What did you do?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he leads me toward the center of the room, between the empty tables, under the soft glow of chandelier light. Then he stops. Lets go of my hand. And drops to one knee.
The world tilts.
Mark Callahan is six-foot-six of controlled intensity and calculated power. He doesn't kneel for anyone, doesn't lower himself, doesn't make himself smaller. But here he is, on one knee in an empty restaurant, looking up at me for maybe the first time since I've known him.
"Maura."
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it in the silence.
"I've been watching you for months. Not just the surveillance—watching you live your life. The way you handle things that would break other people and never complain about it. You take care of what needs taking care of, no matter what."
His voice is steady, matter-of-fact, the same tone he uses for everything. But the words?—
"I lived in a house that was too quiet. I built a life that was too controlled. I thought that was enough. Then I watched you make toast for breakfast and laugh at something on your phone, and I realized I'd been holding my breath for decades."
My vision blurs. I blink hard, but the tears come anyway.
"You're carrying our baby. You turned my house into a home just by being in it. You gave me a future I didn't know I wanted."
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a ring. Small diamond, simple setting, nothing flashy or ostentatious. Perfect.
"Will you marry me?"
One question. Three words that change everything and nothing because haven't we already been living this answer for months?
"Yes."
He slides the ring onto my finger, and then he's standing, rising to his full height, and I'm in his arms. The kiss tastes like salt and certainty and the word yes repeated between our mouths.
"I love you," he says against my lips.
"I love you too."
In the empty restaurant, surrounded by tables set for two hundred people who aren't here, we hold each other like we're the only two people in the world.