Epilogue
“Hey, Brooke.” David poked his head in the door of the fifth-floor apartment she shared with Eli. Without knocking, of course. “Chris needs you on the roof.”
She finished shading a panel of her newest graphic novel, the sequel to the one her agent had finally sold, and set her pencil down against the lip of her drawing table. “It’s like thirty degrees out. What’s he doing up there?”
“He said something about checking on the cold frames.” David held his hands palms-up in a how-the-heck-should-I-know gesture. “I think he’s worried the clematis won’t make it through another frost.”
“He can handle that by himself. What does he need me for? Is there some sort of problem?”
“I’m not sure, Miss Twenty Questions. All I know is if I don’t get you up there ASAP, I’m going to have one pissed-off husband on my hands. And a pissed-off husband means little Davey doesn’t get any action tonight.”
Brooke rolled her neck and stretched her arms above her head. Maybe a little break was just what she needed. She’d been hunched over her drawing table for hours, trying to finish the chapter she was working on before Eli came home from his business trip. He’d been gone four days, and the three-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath apartment he’d specially designed for them when he finished off the top floors of the Chocolate Works seemed like a tomb without him.
She stood and stretched again, releasing her hair from the ponytail she always wore when she was drawing and shaking it out. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of little Davey’s sexual gratification. Let me grab my coat, and I’ll meet Chris up there.”
“Fine. But don’t take too long. Little Davey…”
“I know, I know. Little Davey needs to get some.”
David gave her a thumbs-up and disappeared. Brooke wandered down the hall to the master bedroom to dig up a jacket, dodging unpacked bags and boxes as she went. They’d only been in the apartment a few weeks. Eli had busted his ass to get the renovations done in record time. Probably because he’d sold his penthouse and was tired of sharing a tiny bathroom with Brooke and all her bottles and tubes and jars.
She’d told him he was nuts, but he insisted he was sick of living downtown and didn’t want to wait until the renovations were complete to start their life together. He said he’d miss waking up with her, but Brooke had a sneaking suspicion there were other things he’d miss, too. Like Mrs. Feingold’s rugelach, sampling local craft beers with David and Chris after the latter returned from his tour, and roughhousing with little Jaden, who was just starting to walk. He might not want to admit it out loud, but Eli was as much a part of the Candy Court crew as her.
Brooke grabbed the first outer garment she could find—Eli’s leather bomber jacket—and slipped it on, pausing to bury her face in the collar and inhale the smell of the well-worn leather mixed with his cologne. Four days. That was all he’d been gone. So why did it seem like four freaking years?
Because she’d turned into a certified, card-carrying, make-you-wanna-puke, hopeless romantic, that was why. The kind of girl who smelled her boyfriend’s jacket. Wore his shirts. Slept clutching his pillow when he out of town.
And she’d never been happier.
She shoved her keys in her pocket and closed the door behind her, testing the handle to make sure it was locked. She still wasn’t the greatest at the whole door-locking thing, but Eli made her promise she’d be more careful now that new tenants were starting to move into the building. The least she could do was secure the place when she left.
“All right, Chris,” she called to her friend as she pushed her way through the door to the roof. “You got me up here. Now, what was so important that…”
Her voice trailed off as she absorbed the scene in front of her. Eli stood under a tent like the one he’d set up for Chris and David’s wedding, complete with twinkling LEDs and two portable space heaters chugging away to ward off the winter chill. A round table just the right size for an intimate meal sat dead center, flanked by two comfortable looking wicker chairs with puffy, off-white cushions. The table was draped with a matching gauzy, off-white cloth, on top of which sat two elegant place settings and a bottle of wine chilling in a shining silver ice bucket.
“I thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow.” Hello, mouth, meet foot. When your boyfriend surprised you with a romantic rooftop dinner date, you were supposed to leap into his arms and kiss him stupid, not ask him what the hell he was doing there. She still had a lot to learn about this relationship stuff. Fortunately, Eli was a patient teacher.
“Nice to see you, too.” His broad smile took any sting out of his words. He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Join me?”
Brooke arched a brow. “What would you do if I said no?”
“Rumor has it Mrs. Feingold is available. It’s her husband’s bowling night.”
“Yeah, but can Mrs. Feingold do this?” She crossed to him, took his head in her hands, and pulled it to her waiting lips. After a stunned second, he reciprocated, snaking an arm around her waist to tug her body tight to his. She sighed and relaxed into him, loving the way they fit together, her soft curves yielding to his rigid angles. That was something she didn’t think she’d ever get tired of.
When they’d finished making up for four whole days spent with half a continent between them, they drew apart. Eli gave her that lopsided, impish grin of his that even after almost a year together never failed to turn her insides to mush. “If Mrs. Feingold can do that, I sure as hell don’t want to find out.”
Brooke returned his smile with a playful one of her own. “What’s wrong? Little old ladies not your type?”
“You’re my type.” He gave her a swift, sizzling kiss, turned her around, and with a pat on her bottom nudged her toward the nearest chair, which he pulled out for her. “Sit.”
She studied the picture-perfect setting Eli had clearly worked hard to create then glanced back at the man responsible, noticing for the first time his neatly pressed dress pants and cranberry V-neck cashmere sweater rolled at the sleeves, the starched, white collar and cuffs of his dress shirt peeking out from underneath. She frowned down at her frayed yoga pants and well-worn, much loved Cowboy Bebop T-shirt, partially covered by Eli’s half-zipped bomber jacket, which swallowed up her shoulders and hung past her hips. If she’d known what was in store for her, she would have taken a couple of minutes to throw on something decent and freshen up. “I feel underdressed.”
“You look beautiful. Stop stalling and sit down.”
She obeyed, and he poured them each a glass of chardonnay before taking his seat across from her. Seemingly out of nowhere, David appeared at his side dressed entirely in black, the only splash of color a bright red napkin draped over one arm. “Are you ready for the first course?”
“First course?” She blinked. “How many are there?”
“Yes,” Eli said, directing his answer at David and ignoring Brooke. “Thank you.”
With an exaggerated bow, David disappeared as silently as he’d come. Brooke shook her head. “Who else did you rope into this? Please tell me Mr. Feingold’s not going to show up when he’s done bowling and serenade us with his accordion.”
“Nope. Just you, me, and our hopefully unobtrusive waiter from here on in.”
Eli raised his glass in a toast. She lifted hers in response, and they clinked them together then sipped.
She tilted her head and gazed at him over the rim of her glass. “What’s the special occasion?”
He shrugged and took another sip of his chardonnay. “Who says we need one?
“We don’t. But knowing you, there’s something I’m forgetting.”
“All right, if you must know.” He traced the rim of his glass with his index finger. “It’s our one-year anniversary.”
She pursed her lips. “I may not be the world’s best girlfriend, but I know we didn’t start officially dating until after the Geek Girls benefit. And that was in April, not January.”
“Not that anniversary.” He set his glass down and reached across the table to take her hand. “The anniversary of the night we met. In the back room at Flotsam and Jetsam.”
“We didn’t exactly meet in the back room.” She shivered as he drew slow circles with his thumb on her palm. Leave it to Eli to memorialize their one-night stand that wasn’t. The guy had a seriously secret sentimental side and a dirty mind he kept equally under wraps with everyone but her.
“Maybe not.” One corner of his mouth curled into a naughty grin. “But it was certainly the most memorable part of the evening.”
David reappeared, humming Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and bearing two steaming soup bowls, about as unobtrusive as an elephant in a tutu.
“Roast carrot and fennel soup with parsley walnut pesto,” he announced as he set the bowls down in front of them.
“Looks delish,” Brooke said, digging in.
Eli chuckled, and she paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “What’s so funny?”
“You. It’s refreshing to see a woman who’s not afraid to enjoy her food.” He laid his spoon aside and cleared his throat. “I was going to wait until dessert, but…”
He pushed his chair back and fumbled in his pants pocket. “Dammit. Things went a lot smoother when I imagined this moment. But I was afraid to lose it, so I pinned it to the lining.”
“Afraid to lose what?”
“This.”
Brooke’s heart stuttered to a stop. Between the thumb and index finger of his outstretched hand, Eli held the most exquisite diamond ring she’d ever seen. The shimmering, old European cut diamond was set in platinum and accented on either side by a trio of smaller, single-cut stones, giving the ring a vintage, art deco feel.
She sat transfixed, unable to move but eventually, thankfully, able to speak. “Does that mean what I think?”
“If you think it means I’m asking you to spend the rest of your life with me, ’til death do us part, then yes.” The silence stretched between them as he twirled the ring in his fingers, the light from the LEDs catching the facets of the stones in brilliant, golden flashes. “I believe it’s customary for the lady to give some sort of an answer.”
“Well, duh.” She plucked the ring from his fingers and slipped it over her knuckle, resisting the urge to go all girly and stretch out her hand to admire it. There was time enough for that later, in private. “Of course I’ll marry you. Who else would put up with my mood swings, off-key singing, and Diet Coke addiction?”
“A small price to pay for my snoring, leaving the cap off the toothpaste, and neglecting to change the toilet paper roll.”
He leaned in to kiss her. She met him halfway, but their lips had barely made contact when a piercing shriek cut through the air, making them jump apart.
“Oh. My. God.” David whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and stabbed at the screen. “Houston, we have a problem. Lover boy jumped the gun. She’s got the ring on her finger. Get up here with the good stuff, stat.”
He ended the call, shoved the phone back in his pocket and glared at Eli. “What happened to waiting for dessert?”
“Sorry.” Eli gave one shoulder a half-hearted shrug that said he wasn’t the least bit sorry. “Patience isn’t my strong suit.”
“What does he mean, the good stuff?” Brooke smiled across the table at her fiancé. Fiancé. The word sent ripples of excitement and anticipation through her. Eli was her fiancé. She was going to be his wife. A year ago—hell, eight months ago—it would have seemed impossible. But now the impossible had become reality. “I thought this night was pretty darned good already.”
“He means this.” Chris stepped out onto the roof, brandishing a bottle of what looked like champagne and followed by Charise and the Feingolds. “It was supposed to be for when he popped the question.”
“What happened?” Mr. Feingold fiddled with his hearing aid. “Did she say yes?”
“Of course she did,” his wife scolded him. “Can’t you see the rock on her finger?”
“This calls for champagne.” Chris popped the cork.
“Thanks.” Eli took the bottle from him. “I think I can take it from here.”
“What about dinner?” David protested. “There’s four more courses to go.”
Chris nodded in agreement. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted my salt encrusted beef tenderloin.”
“I’ll text you when we’re ready for the next course,” Eli promised.
“If you want some mood music, I could get my accordion,” offered Mr. Feingold.
“Come on, old man.” His wife tugged at the sleeve of his cardigan. “The lovebirds want some privacy.”
“Mrs. Feingold is right.” Charise started for the door. “Let’s leave the happy couple alone.”
After a bit of grumbling, mostly from Mr. Feingold, the group said their congratulations and left.
Eli pushed back his chair and stood. “Dance with me.”
“There’s no music.”
“Do we need any?” He extended his hand to her. “I want to hold you.”
How could a girl resist an invitation like that? Brooke took his hand and let him pull her out of her seat and into his arms.
“You realize my mother’s going to be beside herself.” She rested her cheek on his shoulder as they moved to the music in their minds. “Her eldest daughter marrying Manhattan’s most eligible bachelor? She’s going to want a big society wedding, with all the trimmings.”
“Is that what you want?” Eli asked.
“Hell, no.” She shuddered at the thought. “I just want you.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” He stopped swaying to pull an envelope from his back pocket.
“What’s this?” she asked, taking it.
“Why don’t you open it and find out?”
She broke the seal and slid out two airline tickets. “Costa Rica?”
“I did a little leg work. All you need to get a marriage license is a passport and two witnesses.”
“A marriage license?” She gazed up at him, open mouthed. “You mean elope?”
“That’s the plan, if you’re on board.”
She studied the tickets, her lower lip trembling. “This flight leaves in less than twelve hours. I’ll never be ready in time.”
“Charise is packing your bag as we speak.”
Brooke slipped the tickets back into the envelope. “You really did think of everything, didn’t you?”
“Yep. All I need now is the girl.” He took the envelope from her fingertips, returned it to his pocket and cupped her face in his hands. “What do you say, sweetheart?”
“What do I say?” She laughed, raised herself up on her toes, and kissed him—a long, lingering kiss that communicated her answer in a way words never could. But to be sure, when she was done she gave him the words, too.
“I say you’ve got her. And we have a plane to catch.”
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