My next, more rational thought was Or what if he has a ring in his pocket?

I decided Paolo was right: I do need to enjoy my diamond shoes. Not only enjoy them, but start dancing in them.

So I ran inside and showered and put on the nice sundress that Marie Rose had, thankfully, packed for me. Then I added some mascara and came rushing back out, my hair nicely combed (since, whether I was getting broken up with or proposed to, I didn’t want it to be while I was wearing a swimsuit, my oldest Havaianas, and Michael’s own New York Yankees T-shirt with the holes under the sleeve, with my hair in a ratty knot on top of my head).

But even though I’d been very quick, by my estimation, Mo Mo and Gretel and the boat were long gone, and there was only Michael standing there . . .

. . . at the end of a path of pink rose petals someone had scattered from the porch of the cabana, where I was, to the little table, where Michael stood, holding a glass of champagne for me.

“Thirsty?” he asked. Behind him, the tiki torches were flaming merrily away.

Okay. I was probably not getting broken up with.

“Um,” I said. “Sure.” I followed the trail of roses through the sand to where he was standing and took the champagne glass from him. “Thanks.”

He smiled and clinked my glass with his and said, “Cheers,” and all of my insides (and some of my outsides) seemed to melt because I saw that the playfulness in his smile reached his eyes, and though the darkness there might have been as deep as the ocean beyond the reef—which was quite serious, because Mo Mo had warned us there were sharks there—he was finally welcoming me to dive in. In fact, he was grinning ear to ear.

“Okay,” I said, lowering my glass. “What is going on?”

“What do you mean?” He lowered his glass, too. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Something is definitely going on. There are rose petals scattered on the beach and you’re smiling in a weird way.”

“I’m merely enjoying a romantic meal with the woman I love. Is that so wrong?” He pulled a chair out for me, the one that had the best view of the sea and the sunset, which had turned the sky a dramatic pink and periwinkle blue.

“It’s weird,” I said, taking the seat. “I love you, but you’re acting very weird. You have a weird look in your eye. You’ve had it for a few weeks now. Don’t try to deny it. I thought you were having another kidney stone.”

Michael handed me a napkin. “It’s a tragedy when a man can’t enjoy dinner with the woman he loves without being castigated by her as weird.”

“I didn’t say you’re weird, I said you’re acting weird.”

“You also said you thought I was having a kidney stone.”

“Well,” I said, “you know how you get.”

“Apparently I do not, since I thought I was behaving in a perfectly normal manner.”

“No, you are clearly hiding something from me.”

“I can assure it’s not a kidney stone.”

“Well, then, what—?”

That’s when something hard struck my lip—something that had been inside the champagne glass. At first I thought it was a strawberry—everyone loves cutting up strawberries and sticking them on the side of champagne glasses, which is simply annoying, as it takes up a lot of room where delicious champagne could be.

But then, when I looked inside my glass, I saw that what was in it was not a strawberry, but something that glittered like metal. And stone. A large, glittering white stone on a platinum band.

My heart stopped, and not from a myocardial infarction.

There was no sound (since my heart was not beating) except the sound of the waves gently lapping up against the white shore and the occasional call of a far-off bird. We were the only human beings for miles around (I’m not including Lars and whoever else from the RGG security detail was stationed on the next island over, scanning the area for incoming boats and spy drones).

It was only Michael, me, and the birds (and dolphins and millions of fish a few feet away).

I looked from the ring up at Michael.

“What is this?” I asked him, raising the glass.

“I think it should be pretty obvious,” he said. “It’s an engagement ring. I thought you’d like it because the diamond’s laboratory-grown. I know we said we weren’t going to get married, but I’m tired of never seeing you anymore, and this seems like the most practical solution to the problem.”

Then, before I knew what was happening, he’d dropped to one knee beside me in the sand, put his hands over mine, and looked up into my face.

“I can take the ring back and get a natural diamond if you want,” he said, “but I thought you’d like this one since it’s conflict-free.”

I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Had there ever been a more down-to-earth, more Michael Moscovitzy proposal in history?

“No,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

“You’ve barely looked at it. Here, try it on, at least.” He took the glass from me, tossed the remains of my champagne into the sand, then fished the ring from the bottom. “I hope I got the right size. You never wear rings. Tina helped me guess—”

“Tina?” The ring slid neatly onto the third finger of my left hand, where the large colorless diamond caught the rays of the setting sun and flamed like the fire at the end of one of the nearby tiki torches. “Tina knew?”