Chapter 19

Chapter

Nineteen

C amila and Jakob are three months old now. Big, beautiful, healthy, perfect.

And we have not gotten one single moment alone. I don't mind. Not really. But I would like some time with You.

You, of course, recognize this. Beth is called in, because apparently babysitting is in the job description when one is Logan Ryder's assistant. Plus, Beth has experience, as an older sister had twins, and Beth often babysits them.

So, the twins in good hands, Logan tells me to put on a fancy gown, some killer heels, and a little makeup; time to go out.

Once again, he takes me to Gourmand, the restaurant in Hell's Kitchen he owns. We are regulars there now, a booth near the kitchen permanently reserved for Logan, Camila, Jakob, and me.

But this time, something is different.

The entire restaurant is empty, not a single soul in sight.

Odd indeed for a Thursday evening.

The lights are low, a single table near the center of the dining room lit with a candle, set for two.

My heart pitter-patters a little; You've shown me enough movies to know a setting like this indicates a proposal to follow.

I am ready.

More than ready, indeed.

A trio of musicians sets the mood: a guitar, a mandolin, and a violin, playing soft, beautiful music off to our right. We have wine, salads, soup, entrées, more wine, dessert. No ring, no proposal.

I am beginning to doubt my assumption, and to feel some level of disappointment now.

When we are done, you rise to your feet. Extend Your hand. "Did you know there's little garden on the roof of this building?"

I didn't, and accompany You up an elevator and then a flight of stairs, out through a dented, rusted metal door and onto a rooftop garden. It is tiny, intimate. Trellises form a maze, roses and lavender and wisteria and honeysuckle climbing and blooming, filling the air with a heavy, heady scent. Strings of soft white lights are woven through the trellises as well, shedding a golden glow on the magical scene. I hear the door open, but it is far away, somehow, and out of sight. I hear mandolin strings quaver, and then the violin joins in, and the guitar follows; the musicians have followed us.

You lead me through the maze of trellises to a hidden corner of the rooftop, where the trellises form an arch over a wrought-iron bench. Nearby is a little fountain, water spilling and chuckling over rocks, the pool lit from within.

The city seems an impossibility from here, sitting on the bench, in this garden, surrounded by flowers and lights and a fountain, music in the background.

"How have we never been up here, Logan?"

You grin at me. "Because it didn't exist a month ago." A modest shrug of a shoulder. "I had it built, just for us, for today."

"It is . . . a fantasy, Logan. Beyond beautiful."

You point at something on the other side of the little clearing in the garden, a small wrought-iron table, over which is draped a red velvet cloth. "Go look."

I rise, pull the cloth away.

Gasp, breath stolen, tears immediately stinging my eyes. "Oh, Logan."

"I'm not a master carver, but I'm pretty good with my hands."

"You made this yourself?"

A shrug. "Of course."

It is a wooden box. Two feet square, one foot deep. And despite his claim to the contrary, it clearly was carved by a master. It is... lovely isn't a good enough word. Breathtaking. The wood is a rich deep brown, polished to a shiny gleam, shot through with reddish streaks and whorls. The hinges are brass, as is the simple catch mechanism.

I tug on the lid; it is locked.

I laugh through my tears. "You're stealing from my father, Logan."

"Shamelessly. I figured if I couldn't improve upon perfection, why try? Why not just borrow?"

"So where is the key?"

A nonchalant shrug. "I've got it. You'll have to come find it, though."

I cross the garden, pull You close. Run my hands down your hips, feel in your hip pockets; You've left Your phone at home, as have I, since Beth knows to call Gourmand if she needs us. Nothing. I pat Your back pockets, and You use my proximity to steal a kiss. And then another. And then the kiss is spiraling out of control, and I cannot help myself. I'm tugging at Your tie, at the coat, at the buttons of Your shirt.

But when I've got the shirt open, I see it:

A brass key on a red ribbon.

It isn't an exact match for the diamond-crusted one dangling between my breasts at this very moment, however. No, the bow of this key is shaped like a heart, forged out of a solid, flat, two-sided piece of brass. Three letters have been carved or punched out of the solid brass: LWR—Logan Wesley Ryder.

The key to Your heart.

I tug the ribbon off Your head, clutch the key in my fist. And I kiss You until neither of us can breathe, until my dress has found its way up around my hips and we're pressed up against each other, making love on the bench, right there on the rooftop, still partially clothed, desperate, wild.

"You have to open the box, babe," You tell me.

I disentangle myself from You, reluctantly, I must admit. Settle my dress back down where it belongs, cross once more to the table, to the box. Slide the brass key into the lock, twist the heart. The catch snicks , and I lift the lid.

Midnight-blue velvet lines the inside, and at the very center, a ring. Platinum, a huge, glinting, fiery diamond in the center, smaller ones on either side.

You are standing behind me; I feel You, as I can always feel You.

I turn, and You are reaching for me. Pulling me to You. Gazing down at me. Whispering against my lips. "Marry me, Isabel?"

I flatten my palm against Your chest; I've already put the ring on. "Yes, Logan."

"Have my babies?"

I laugh. "I already did."

"Oh yeah." You kiss me, softly, gently. "Them."

I pull out of your arms, remove my diamond Tiffany's key, place it in the box. Remove the plain brass key from the lock, and slide the red ribbon over my head, settle the cold brass between my breasts. "Now your heart will always be with mine."

"What was it your mother told you?" You gather me close, hold me tight. "Oh yeah. Your heart is what makes mine continue to beat every single day."

"Now you're stealing from my mother?" I tease him. "You need to get your own moves, Logan."

You pull back, just a little. "Was that a joke?"

"A little one."

"I must be rubbing off on you."

"Rubbing off in me, you mean."

" Another joke? And a dirty one?" An amazed laugh. "Could this get any more perfect?"

I reach down. "We could have sex again?"

"That would do it, I'd say."