Chapter 29 #2
"You brought your wife's engagement ring to my rehearsal dinner," Roman says. "We're just following the evidence."
Through the windows, I can see the snow falling harder. The ocean is barely visible now.
"I'm not proposing tonight," I say firmly.
"Okay," Roman says, in a tone that absolutely means he doesn't believe me.
"I'm not. The plan is Christmas Eve. Quebec City. Dinner with a view. It's perfect. Romantic. It's—"
"Calculated," Roman finishes. "Controlled. The opposite of how you actually feel."
"What's wrong with calculated?"
"Nothing, if you're doing taxes. Everything, if you're proposing to your wife.
" Christian shifts in his chair. "Look, I'm going to be real with you for a second.
You have two options here. Option one: stick to the plan.
Quebec City. Christmas Eve. Everything perfect and controlled and exactly as you planned it, complete with your three backup restaurants and color-coded timeline. "
"I have four backup restaurants."
Christian ignores me, continuing. "Or option two: you trust your gut. You stop trying to control the moment and let it happen naturally. Tonight, tomorrow, Quebec City—whenever feels right."
Rasputin meows in agreement, his elf bell jingling.
"Even the Christmas elf agrees," Roman mutters.
We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound the crackling fire and the distant sound of laughter from the rehearsal dinner.
"I'm not proposing tonight," I say finally.
"Okay," Roman says.
"I'm not. The plan is Christmas Eve."
"We believe you," Christian says, in a tone that implies the opposite.
"I mean it."
"Sure you do," they both say in unison.
Babushka sighs dramatically. "Vitenka, I must go.
Rasputin needs his dinner. Is his Christmas elf feeding time, which means he gets extra treats shaped like candy canes.
" She pauses, her expression softening. "But remember—love is not plan.
Love is choice. Every day, every moment.
Sometimes big choice, sometimes small choice. But always choice."
"Thanks, Babushka."
"You're welcome. Now go. Stop hiding in smoking room like scared little boy."
She hangs up before I can respond, and I look at Roman and Christian, both of whom are still watching me.
"Not a word about this to anyone," I say, standing and pocketing the ring box.
"Oh, we're absolutely telling everyone," Roman says, moving toward the door.
"Definitely telling Calli and Lucia," Christian confirms, following. "Also probably posting about it in the group chat."
"How comforting."
"We try," Roman says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Now come on. Your wife is probably wondering where you disappeared to. Try not to accidentally propose in the next ten minutes."
"I'm not going to accidentally—"
"Yeah, yeah. That's what you said about Vegas, and look how that turned out."
He's not wrong.
We make our way back through the estate—past the formal dining room where dessert is being served, past the ballroom where people are starting to gather for after-dinner drinks, until we reach the main salon.
Harper is standing near the fireplace with Calli and Lucia, laughing at something. She's wearing a deep burgundy dress that makes her skin glow in the firelight, her cinnamon-toned hair curled lightly and loose around her shoulders. When she sees me, her whole face lights up.
"There you are," she says, crossing to me. The scent of her perfume—lavender and vanilla—cuts through the smell of wood smoke and wine. "I was wondering where you disappeared to."
"Catching up with Babushka, is all."
"How is she?"
"Opinionated. Rasputin was wearing a Christmas elf costume."
"Of course he was. It's almost Christmas." She pauses, studying my face. "Wait, why were you talking to Babushka during dinner? Is everything okay?"
Behind her, I can see Roman and Christian trying very hard not to laugh.
"Everything's fine. Just checking in."
Harper's eyes narrow slightly. "Uh-huh. And it took you twenty minutes to check in?"
"She had a lot to say about Rasputin's elf costume. Apparently, Rasputin's little jingle balls couldn't fit all the way into it."
She laughs softly, lips the color of deep red wine spreading into an irresistible smile.
"Then it's a good thing the dinner is winding down.
I think my female 'jingle balls' could use a little stretching.
" She adjusts the top of her dress, and her full cleavage shifts temptingly. "Want to get some air?"
The ring box is a weight in my pocket.
I could do it now. Right now. Lead her outside, get down on one knee in the snow—
"It's twenty degrees outside," I say.
"I'll let you keep me warm."
"Is that a request or a demand?"
"Both."
She grins and takes my hand, and I let her lead me toward the terrace doors.
Quebec City is three days away.
The plan is Christmas Eve.
But somewhere between now and then, I can't deny it—the idea of putting down the planning is becoming more and more attractive…
* * *
Two minutes later, Harper and I slip out through the French doors, grabbing our coats from the nearby closet, and head down toward the beach.
The December cold hits like a wall—sharp and biting—but Harper doesn't seem to care. The moment her heels touch the sand, she kicks them off, dangling them from one hand as she walks barefoot.
"You're going to get frostbite," I warn the woman who's now holding my hand.
"Live a little, Victor."
"I'm freezing my balls off for the second time in a week. Trust me—that's living."
"This is you tolerating. Not the same."
She's right.
Grinning, I kiss her forehead, and we continue walking down the lamp-lined beachfront sand of the estate, the ocean crashing beside us, the lights from the estate itself shrinking softly behind us. The snow has stopped, but the wind is still brutal, whipping Harper's hair around her face.
"Thank you," Harper says finally, stopping and turning to face me.
"For what?"
"For bringing me here. For—" She motions back toward the estate. "This entire event is just—it's beautiful. Roman and Calli are lucky to have friends like you."
"I'm the lucky one." I pull her closer, trying to shield her from the wind. "You're freezing."
"A little. But it's worth it." She looks up at me, her hazel eyes reflecting the distant lights from the estate. "Tomorrow's going to be incredible. Have you seen the ceremony setup?"
"Roman showed me earlier. The oceanfront pavilion. Really nice."
"Really expensive, you mean."
"That too." I adjust her coat collar, tucking it tighter around her neck. "The ceremony starts at four. Then cocktail hour on the terrace, dinner in the main ballroom at six. First dance around seven-thirty."
"And your best man speech?"
"After dinner. Before the cake cutting."
Harper grins. "Are you nervous?"
"About the speech? Not at all. I've given hundreds of presentations."
"This isn't a presentation, Victor. This is your best friend's wedding. You're allowed to be emotional."
"I'm not emotional."
"You cried during the Thanksgiving episode."
"That was—I had something in my eye."
"For five minutes?"
"It was a persistent irritant."
She laughs, and the sound cuts through the wind. "I love that about you, you know. How you pretend you don't feel things when you feel everything."
The ring box in my pocket suddenly feels heavier.
"Tomorrow's going to be perfect," she continues, not noticing my hesitation. "Roman and Calli deserve perfect. And then we get Quebec City. Christmas. Just us."
Just us.
The words echo in my head, mixing with Babushka's advice and Roman's skepticism and my own growing certainty that the plan—the careful, calculated, controlled plan—might not be the right plan at all.
"What are you thinking about?" Harper asks, tilting her head. "You have that look."
My jaw tenses, skin humming as I think of a lie. "I'm thinking about tomorrow. About Roman. About how he's managed to do something I never thought he'd do."
"Get married?"
"Trust someone enough to get married." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Roman's always been the one who plays it safe. And then Calli happened, and he just—let go. Trusted it. Trusted her."
"Sounds familiar," Harper says softly.
She steps closer, her hands finding their way inside my coat, resting against my chest. We stand there, the ocean crashing behind us, the wind whipping around us, and all I can think about is the ring in my pocket and the fact that Harper is right here, right now, and maybe the perfect moment isn't the one I've been planning.
Maybe it's this one.
"We should head back," I say, my voice as gritty as the sand beneath our feet. "You're freezing."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. I'm not letting you freeze out—"
She kisses me before I can finish the sentence, rising up on her toes, her cold hands framing my face.
It starts gentle—a soft press of lips—but then her fingers thread through my hair and I'm pulling her closer, my hands gripping her waist through the thick coat, and gentle becomes something else entirely.
Something urgent.
Something that makes me forget about the cold and the wind and the fact that we're standing on a beach in twenty-degree weather.
By the time I pull back, my pulse is pounding and damn near in my throat.
"Okay," Harper says, her voice shaky. "Now we should definitely head back."
"Agreed."
But neither of us moves.
"Victor, maybe we—"
I kiss her again, harder this time, my body pressing against hers, and she whimpers, pulling me closer.
"We're—" she manages between kisses, "—going to freeze to death—"
"No longer care."
"—or get caught—"
"Still don't care."
My hand slides under her coat, finding the zipper of her dress, and she gasps.
"Victor, we can't—not here—"
"I know." I rest my forehead against hers, both of us panting softly in the cool night air. "I know. We should—"
"Go back to our room."
"Yes."
"Right now."
"Definitely."