The limo drives us into the city, to a towering skyscraper.
As we ride the glass elevator up – a view of the glistening city laid out before us, twinkling in the yellow setting sun – I feel my heart pounding in my chest.
For the first time in a long, long time, perhaps since I was a child, I feel nerves swirling through me, a whispered voice telling me that this is a mistake, that she’s going to laugh at me.
But no.
This is right.
I feel it in my fucking bones.
The elevator opens onto a marble-floored restaurant, our table set against the window, giving us a view of the city. The place is empty apart from us and the staff, who wait respectfully, suited and booted and ready to take our orders.
I let my hand smooth down Anna’s back as I lead her to the table, squeezing onto the place just above her ass, her perfect fucking ass. I have to move my hand further up her back straightaway, though, because the urge to grip on tightly and bend her over is too overwhelming.
She arches an eyebrow as I pull her chair out for her, a wicked smile on her sassy face.
“Why are you being so gentlemanly all of a sudden, huh?”
“Probably because I love you,” I say, passion infusing my voice.
She blinks, gaping at me, as though she thinks she misheard.
“Um?” She leans toward me, like any second I could disappear. “I don’t want to be weird or anything, but did you just say what I think you did?”
Idiot, I chide myself.
I’d constructed a whole plan.
Dinner then love then …
And yet now that I’ve said it, I feel the emotion whelming inside of me and a lump forming in the back of my throat.
“I love you,” I growl, striding toward her and enveloping her in my embrace, squeezing her close to me, holding her tight and never wanting to let her go. “I love you more than I could ever explain, Anna. You’re … fuck, you’re my oxygen. You mean everything to me. I love you.”
“I love you,” she gasps. “I’ve been thinking of saying it all week, but it just—”
“It’s hard to shoot first,” I say, the corners of my lips twitching upward like there are two invisible strings attached to me.
“Exactly,” she smiles.
“So we’re in love,” I say. “We’re in love and there’s nobody I would rather be with, ever. I waited my whole life for you and now that I’ve found you, it’d take the end of the goddamned universe to make me let you go. And even then, the universe would be up for a hell of a fight. So Anna Moore, I have something very, very important to ask you.”
At the use of her full name, tears prick her eyes, glistening brightly.
As I step back and reach inside my jacket pocket, she squeals and clasps her hands in front of her, gazing at me as her eyes widen to saucers, cutely, confidently, oh-so-Anna.
I kneel down and take the ring box out, opening it to reveal a glistening diamond, large but not too large, not gaudy.
Elegant, just like her, a ring worthy of a queen.
“All my life, I’ve been searching for something, for somebody. It’s you, Anna. You’re the … dammit, you’re the other half of me, you’re what completes me. Without you, I feel like less of a person. I love you more than I could ever explain with words. So I’m going to spend every day for the rest of our lives proving it to you. And to our children. Anna Moore, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she cries, throwing herself forward.
A laugh of pure joy – and relief – escapes me as I take the ring from the box and catch her hand. I slide the ring onto her finger, where it fits snugly and comfortably, and then stand up and wrap my arms around her.
“I wanted to wait until after dinner,” I whisper in her ear. “But with you, Anna, waiting turns out to be impossible.”
She laughs through a sob of happiness and our lips magnetize to each other like they always do, irrepressible, like they always will for every star-bright day of our star-bright lives.
She moans through the kiss and I squeeze her closer to me.
My queen.
My fiancé.
My love.
Epilogue
Three Weeks Later
Anna
As we eat dinner – a simple fish dish, I’m too amped-up to go all out – I feel about a million butterflies dancing in my belly. They swirl around like they’re trying to mess with my head or something.
I focus on Artem instead, watching him as he bites into the fish, my eyes straying to the way his suit hugs into his arm as he brings the fork to his mouth and chews slowly, closing his eyes to savor the taste.
There’s something so wonderful about watching my man eat a meal I’ve prepared for him, about seeing the passion light up his features and the sense of belonging that wash over both of us.