‘I’ve made you sad?’

Every aching muscle liquefies, my emotionally exhausted body sinking into the chair. ‘No . . . I . . . it’s just . . . ’ I raise the paper, waving it in the air as I wipe my eyes. ‘I can’t . . . ’ I gather the strength to utter something comprehensible and spit it out. ‘I’m so sorry.’

I rise from the chair, forcing my legs to hold me steady, and approach him. My head’s shaking a little, angry with myself for making him feel the need to explain when I already know how he feels.

When I’m only a few feet away, his arms open, welcoming me into his embrace, and I practically throw myself at him, feeling my feet leave the floor and his nose head straight for its favourite place. ‘Don’t cry,’ he soothes, tightening his hold. ‘Please don’t cry.’

I’m unable to speak through my emotion, so I return his fierce cuddle, soaking up every familiar sharp edge of his body against mine. We remain a tangle of limbs for an age, me working hard to gather myself, Miller patient while I do so. He eventually attempts to detach me from his body, and I let him. Then he drops to his knees and tugs me down to join him. That beautiful smile greets me, his hands pushing my hair from my face and his thumbs collecting the tears still escaping my eyes.

He goes to speak but purses his lips instead, and I see his internal struggle to voice what he wants to say. So I speak instead. ‘I never doubted your love for me, no matter how you chose to say it.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘I didn’t mean to make you feel shitty.’

His smile stretches and his eyes sparkle. ‘I was worried.’

‘Why?’

‘Because . . .’ His eyes drop and he sighs. ‘Every woman on my client list is married, Olivia. A blessed ring and a certificate signed by a holy man mean nothing to me.’

His admission doesn’t surprise me. I remember William saying loud and clear that Miller Hart struggles with morality. Sleeping with a married woman in exchange for money probably never cost him a scrap of shame – until he met me. I rest my fingertips on his dark jaw and bring his face to mine. ‘I love you,’ I affirm, and he smiles, but it’s in between sadness and happiness. It’s light and it’s dark. ‘And I know how fascinated you are with me.’

‘You couldn’t possibly know how much.’

‘I beg to differ,’ I whisper, bringing his letter between our bodies.

He looks down at it and silence falls, only very briefly, before he drags lazy eyes to mine. ‘I’ll never do anything less than worship you.’

‘I know.’

‘Every time I feel you or touch your soul, it’ll be etched on that beautiful mind of yours forever.’

I smile. ‘I know that.’

He takes the letter and casts it aside, then holds my hands and my eyes. ‘You make my reality so hard to comprehend.’

I suddenly realise he’s voicing his written words, and I draw breath to halt him, to tell him it isn’t necessary, but I’m hushed when the tip of his finger meets my lips.

‘You are my soul, Olivia Taylor. You are my light. You are my reason to breathe. Don’t ever doubt that.’ His jaw is tense, and even though this is a shortened version of his letter, hearing him speak his declaration hammers it all home more forcefully. ‘Be mine for eternity, I beg you.’ He reaches into his pocket and produces a small box. ‘Because I promise I am yours.’

My eyes are rooted on the tiny gift box, despite the urge to maintain my comfort from keeping our stares locked. I’m too curious. When he takes my hand and places the box in the centre of my palm, I finally rip my eyes from the mysterious leather box and look up at him. ‘For me?’

He nods slowly and rests back on his haunches, as do I.

‘What is it?’

He smiles, showing a glimmer of that rare dimple. ‘I love your curiosity.’

‘Should I open it?’ My fingers reach up to my mouth and I start to nibble at the tip of my thumb, all kinds of feelings, thoughts, and emotions running riot in my mind.

‘I might be the only man who can sate that unyielding curiosity within you.’

I laugh a little, flicking my eyes between the box and Miller’s pensive form. ‘You spike that curiosity, Miller, so my sanity relies on you sating it, too.’

He matches my amusement and nods at the box. ‘Open it.’

My fingers are shaking and emotions are rushing through me as I open the lid. I risk a peek at Miller, finding his blue stare centred solely on me. He’s tense. Nervous. And that makes me feel nervous, too.

Slowly, I pull the lid up. And lose my breath. A ring.

‘It’s diamonds,’ he whispers. ‘Your birthstone.’

I swallow hard, my eyes running over the length of the thick band that rises to a subtle peak in the centre with a brilliant oval-cut diamond flanked by a teardrop-shaped stone on each side. Smaller stones surround the band, all sparkling beautifully. The white gold is cut, making each encrusted piece look like it’s detached from the main diamonds. I’ve never seen anything like it. ‘Antique?’ I ask, abandoning the beauty for another beauty. I look up at him. He still looks nervous.

‘Art nouveau – 1898, to be precise.’

I smile as I shake my head in wonder. Of course he’ll be precise. ‘But it’s a ring.’ I finally steel myself to say the obvious. After today, Central Park, the tension, and Miller’s letter, this ring has just thrown me for a loop.

The box is suddenly gone from my grasp and placed to the side. He shifts to his backside, claims my hands, and tugs me forward until I’ve walked on my knees to between his thighs. I rest back on my haunches again and wait with bated breath for his words. I’ve no doubt they’re going to penetrate deeply, just as his crystal blue eyes are doing right now. He picks the box back up and holds it between us. The sparkles shooting off the exquisite piece are blinding. ‘This one here –’ he points to the diamond, the centrepiece – ‘it represents us.’