14. The Happy Couple
14
THE HAPPY COUPLE
Elodie
There’s a slight October breeze. The morning’s a little warm and a little chilly at the same time. That’s the Bay Area for you. I’m standing on the Embarcadero in Rincon Park, the bay glittering to the right, the Bay Bridge behind us.
Next to us is none other than one of the most social media-worthy sites in the city—Cupid’s Span, a sculpture of a partial bow and a piece of an arrow. Late last night, Gage asked me to meet him here before work and to wear my favorite color. He said his grandmother wants to take pics of the happy couple.
Right now, my temporary fiancé is about thirty feet away, chatting on the phone, his back to me. I kind of want him to turn around, but he’s been busy since I arrived a few minutes ago.
But Margo’s here, decked out in khakis and a lavender oxford cloth shirt, looking grandma chic and no-nonsense as she peers at my outfit. I’m dressed in one of my favorite dresses. Yellow with white polka dots and a halter top that ties at the neck. I have a matching little white sweater on. Well, they did say they wanted photos.
“Just fluff your hair up a little bit right there,” Margo tells me.
I flick the ends.
“Perfect.”
Margo steps away, phone in hand, then stops in her tracks and swivels around. “Wait, doll. Your lipstick needs a touch-up.”
I click open my purse, check my reflection in my phone, and slick some more on, so my lips are nice and cherry red.
“Perfect. Be sure to smack a big kiss on his cheek at just the right moment,” she says then winks and steps back.
“Easy enough,” I say.
Don’t think about how tempted you were when Gage first kissed your cheek on that date.
As I tuck the silver tube back in my purse, Gage turns around, then heads toward me, striding across the grass. The only info he gave me about today was to look fantastic, but that won’t be hard because you always do . Now, I’m waiting for my temporary fiancé to, I don’t know, sweep me into his arms and plant a sailor’s kiss on me.
A girl can dream.
In jeans and a trim black shirt that shows off his ink, the man is hot in a bad boy is a daddy kind of way. Is that a thing? If not, it should be. When he reaches me, his lips crook up. “Elodie, yesterday you said there’s this new thing called being half engaged,” he says, skipping small talk and diving straight in.
I’m all ears, especially since his tone is serious. “I did.”
“But if we’re doing this, we’re going to be all-the-way engaged,” he says with new passion in his tone. “No otherwise, no partial, no halfway about it.”
Out of nowhere, he drops down to one knee. I gasp. My hand flies to my chest. My heart is beating so fast.
He reaches for my other hand. I’m shaking.
“Ever since I met you at the bar, I’ve been captivated by you. You came in and all I could think about was when you would show up again. I knew I had to ask you out. I had to see you,” he says, and that feels all true. “And when you accidentally sent me those love poems, it was like a sign.”
Oddly enough, that feels true, too, even though it’s not. But the way he gazes at me with utter adoration makes my heart stutter. I’m only vaguely aware that from ten feet away his grandmother is taking pictures of us.
“It was a sign for you to ask me out,” I whisper, as if talking louder could break this magic spell.
“I’m so glad I did. Because these last two months with you have been fantastic,” he says.
Wow. He’s doing all the work, crafting the backstory of this fake romance, and I am here for his effort.
“Getting to know you. Taking you around the city. Falling for you,” he says and my romance-loving soul does a little dance. “That time we went on the ferry ride and had our first kiss.”
“What a kiss,” I say, mesmerized by this tale. By his hand on mine, too, the warmth of his palm, the gentle stroke of his fingers.
“I’ll never forget it,” he says, eyes locked on me with heat and, perhaps, genuine affection.
“Then there was the date at the art museum when you showed me your favorite artist.”
Oh! It’s my turn. “Roy Lichtenstein.”
His grin widens. “Yes. That guy. I love the way you love him.”
“His style enchants me.”
Gage’s mesmerizing eyes hold my gaze like he doesn’t want to let go. “You enchant me.”
For a few dangerous seconds, I believe in this fairy tale. I want to believe in it so badly. “That time we went to the tea gardens was magical.”
“I can’t stop thinking about that day either,” he says, and it’s like we’re swaying in the kitchen to a slow love song. We’re moving seamlessly with each other through this make-believe romance. “I could have listened to your stories all day.”
“I liked hearing yours when you took me to the game,” I say.
“And I learned you’re a hardcore football fan,” he says, getting it right on the first guess.
“I sure am.”
“But I think you should like baseball better.”
“I like it so much better now, especially that time we went to the park late at night with a softball and you set me up at home plate.”
“Then ran out to the mound and showed off my best pitch.”
“It was a softball,” I tease.
“And you hit it right to me.” He runs his thumb along the outside of my hand, his touch like electricity, sending sparks through my whole body. “Then, you ran to the pitcher’s mound and I scooped you up in my arms and kissed you and told you I’d never had such a wonderful time with a woman.”
His touch melts me. His words make me feel tingly. The look in his eyes, the commitment, the way he’s willing to make this business engagement work makes my heart pound.
Gage reaches into his pocket, and I tremble with excitement. From several feet away, Margo takes another photo, then moves closer, snapping more.
My smile takes over my face. My eyes turn a little wet.
Gage opens a box. It’s cream, faded, a little worn. It looks like the kind you’d find at a vintage shop. The kind of box that has seen lives and stories.
“My grandmother gave me the ring.”
My throat catches. “She did?”
“Yes. She’s held on to it since my grandfather passed more than thirty years ago,” he says, and even though the loss was long ago, my heart aches for her. I send her a look of sympathy, of love too, then turn my attention back to the man on one knee. “She wants you to have it. I want you to have it,” he says, and he sounds so earnest, so vulnerable, I barely know what to do with this wonder in my chest. This hope in my heart. None of this is real, but it’s all so deliciously surreal.
“Would you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“Yes!” I say, shouting it, feeling the exhilaration of an engagement in this moment, which is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. And yet, I’m thrilled.
Even when he adds, “And for the next three months, my”—he stops, clears his throat, gives a tilt of his head that says we’re in on this ruse—“fiancée.”
It’s a no big deal business deal. It’s an outfit of the day. It’s an act.
But when he slides the ring on my finger, the overflow of emotions is too real. I don’t think you’re supposed to feel achy or hopeful over a fake engagement. I gaze at the vintage ring, a tiny diamond set in a gold filigree band that was worn by someone in his family, someone who loves him, someone who already cares for me.
Gage stands, cups my cheek, and drops a quick but possessive kiss to my lips. It’s a tasteful kiss, but it’s a kiss that says to the world she’s mine .
It’s a claim.
I grip his shirt to hold on. His heart beats steady, loud, like a drum. His breath shudders. His stubble tickles me as he gives me a kiss for the camera.
When he breaks the kiss, he asks with a shrug, “Our last kiss?”
It sounds like that prospect devastates him as much as it devastates me. “Yes.”
A few seconds later, Margo is by my side, saying, “I guess I didn’t need that cheek kiss after all. These were great and you’re both naturals. But I’m a damn good photographer too.” She waggles the phone like it’s a treasure. “We’ve got these for whenever you need social proof of your official engagement. We can say these were taken last week.”
Like that, the romantic moment unspools. It’s time for business. As she wanders away, giving us space, I try to clear my thoughts. I rewind to a few minutes ago when I arrived. Something’s sticking with me.
“Were you on the phone at all?” I ask. “When I arrived?”
Smiling, he shakes his head. “No. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Well, you did.”
He drops a kiss to my cheek. “Get used to it, cupcake. Your fiancé is full of surprises.”
He sure is.