34. Wyn

When a man like Derek MacAvoy takes it into his head to woo a person, he does it with style, believe me. It's been months since we both became goo, and my feet have yet to touch the ground. When I said I wanted to be wooed, I meant I wanted a bit of an effort, you know? I wanted to feel like I was important. Like I was worth a bit of trouble to someone.

Derek definitely didn't get that message. When he heard grand gestures, he heard Paris and Venice. There have been trips to both cities. Kisses at the top of the Eiffel Tower and gondola rides under the stars. There have been picnic lunches on the floor of his office, complete with a blue-and-white checkered blanket and a wicker basket he filled with my favorite treats. And there have been boxes upon boxes of pizza delivered to my desk.

"First bite's for you," he always says, looking at me with molten chocolate eyes.

I love pizza, so I haven't bothered to tell him I was a basket case when I said it and that all I actually wanted was for him to look at me like I was the first bite of his favorite pizza. It's one of those misunderstandings I don't really mind. It's easy to live with if you know what I mean.

The big things he does are lovely, and yes, they tend to sweep me off my feet, but I like the small things just as much. Maybe more.

I like the way he never fails to text me to tell me he misses me on the rare mornings we don't wake up together, and I like the way he kisses me as if he's starving and I'm air when he hasn't seen me for a few hours. I like the way he never walks past my desk without stopping and telling me I'm pretty or organized or the world's best PA, and I love the fact that the big window between his office and mine hasn't been switched to frosted in months—except for when I'm in his office with him and decency absolutely demands it.

I love how he introduces me to people. A hand on the small of my back and a big, goofy grin on his face. "This is my Wyn," he always says, planting a soft kiss on my hair. He keeps his eyes on me when he says it, not even bothering to look to see how the other person might feel about the fact he's with a man.

For my part, I take care of him in every way I possibly can, and he lets me. Yes, yes, he calls me bossy now and again, but he loves it, really.

He does. Honest. He tells me so at least once per day.

"You ready?" he asks, coat over his arm, luggage trailing behind him.

"I'd be more ready if you told me where we were going."

"I did tell you. It's a surprise."

I used to be on the fence about surprises, but having Derek in my life has pushed me firmly into the yes-please camp. "I hope you remember what I said about going over the top. I like being wooed as much as the next guy, but it doesn't have to be something big. I like the small things just as much."

"And I hope you remember what I said. You wanted to be wooed, so you're being wooed. Being wooed is a way of life for you now, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"Derek, seriously. We can't go far this time. We better not be gone for long because we need to be back here by Monday." Derek arranged to have Miller cover for him while we were in Venice a couple of months back, and you wouldn't believe how long it took us to get things back to normal after he'd been here. I mean, yes, sure, a couple of his changes have been improvements, but the rest had to be undone immediately. A half-day on Wednesdays because Ryan always feels a little drained by the middle of the week? Absolutely not.

"It's your birthday, baby. We're celebrating in style, and there's not a thing you can do about it."

And celebrate in style, we do.

New York right before Christmas is one of the most magical places on Earth, and being here with Derek when he's wrapped up in a heavy navy-blue overcoat and cashmere scarf is doing incredible things for the city's ambiance.

We didn't manage to leave the hotel last night, but we made it out today, and we've spent most of the morning stopping at various coffee shops in Chelsea and browsing the small independent art galleries we found dotted around the west side.

Christmas decorations are out in full force, lights twinkle, and the smell of cinnamon and pine finds me every time I walk through a doorway.

"It's the light," I say as we walk alone on a quiet street. "Don't you think it's the light in New York that makes it feel like this? I think it's the color of the buildings. Something enchanting happens when the sun hits them. It makes the whole place glow and feel so New York, you know?"

"Mm-hmm." Derek smiles. It's not the first time I've said it, but he doesn't mind. He has my hand in his, and every time something makes me happy, his clamps tightly around mine to let me know that when I'm happy, he's happy.

It's true for me too. When he's happy, I'm happy, so we've managed to find ourselves in a never-ending loop of euphoria that shows no signs of stopping.

"I'm so glad we're doing New York like this," I say. "I'm so glad you listened and didn't go over the top."

"Told you, New York is your present."

"And it's perfect. It's more than enough." I lean into him and kiss the side of his neck. His skin feels cool and warm at the same time. "Just being here with you is lovely, not rushing around, just soaking it all up. It's the best way to see the city. I'm so happy."

"Are you?"

"Yes. I'm happy." I look up at him, and we both stop moving. I lean up on my toes and kiss him full on the lips. He kisses me back, laughing like a teenager and crushing me so tightly against him that I hear my rib cage adjust. "I've never been this happy. I didn't know it was possible."

"I didn't either."

The sadness that lived in his eyes is gone now. It's been replaced with something different. Something that makes him look like he's about to start laughing. It's there all the time. It's so beautiful. It makes me randomly burst into giggles when I see it.

That's what I'm doing, laughing, when he guides me into a tiny gallery with no discernible name or number on the door.

"Oh my fucking fuck," I gasp. "Are these…? Oh my God, they are! These are all by Andy Montgomery, every single one of them." I know I'm at serious risk of shrieking, so I let out a series of little yelps to mitigate the danger.

We're in a long, narrow room. White walls are covered in faces and full-length figures. There are studies of hands and torsos, sultry eyes and twisted mouths. An entire wall is dedicated to nothing but portraits of a man with green eyes and a scar on his face.

I've followed Andy Montgomery's work for years, and I've never seen any of these pieces before. I open my mouth to ask about it.

"They're from his private collection," Derek says, his ability to read my mind still firmly intact.

I have goosebumps on my arms and the side of my face as we walk around. This is more than an experience. It's more than a gift. It's humbling to be in the presence of work like this.

"Come on," says Derek, opening a door at the end of the gallery.

"Should we…? I don't think we're allowed to do that…"

"Sure we can. I made a call." His eyes flicker with something I haven't seen before and he smiles, waving me in ahead of him.

It's a small room. White like the rest of the gallery but softly lit. There's only one painting in it.

A big painting.

A huge painting of a big man.

A river rises and a dam wall bursts instantly. Hot tears pour down my face. "Is that? Is it…? Is it for m—"

"It's yours, baby. Happy birthday."

I collapse into Derek's arms, kissing every part of him I can find, laughing and sniffling and jumping up and down.

The painting is beyond anything I could have imagined. The background is white. The figure arresting. Lifesize. Posture certain, borderline arrogant. It's Derek in a dark overcoat and heather-gray scarf, both of which hang open, showing the white shirt beneath it. One knee is dipped, and a hand has been pushed deep into a pocket. His face is smoked out. Features blurred. Hidden but unmistakably there.

Derek steps back when I release him and stands next to the painting, digging a hand into his pocket and bending one knee. "What do you think? Did he capture my likeness?"

"Holy hell, did he ever!" My voice is doing that thing where it cracks on every second word, but I don't care at all. "It's you. It's totally you, Derek. My God." I start laughing hysterically. "You're even wearing exactly the same thing. You have the same coat on. The same shirt." I look from Derek to the portrait of him, and my breath catches.

The Faceless Man and the man of my dreams.

They stand side by side. Each a reflection of the other. Two sides of the same coin. I shake my head in disbelief. "It's incredible. The detail is amazing. Unreal. It-it even looks like you both have the same thing in your…pocket." My words slow and falter. It's true. Derek and The Faceless Man both have something in their pockets. The same thing. Something small. Something square. A hot and cold feeling of terror and joy and rampant excitement washes over me.

Derek, the living, breathing version of him, takes his hand out of his pocket and reveals a small red box with elaborate gold embossing. He steps toward me, smiling so big I can't help smiling back the same way.

"Quick question," he says as he opens the box.

There's a blinding line of fire. A glittering curve of white light.

Derek puts an arm around me and pulls me close to him. So close that even if we weren't alone, even if we were in a room full of people, I'd be the only one to hear him speak.

"Will you marry me?"

It's gravel and hope. Today and tomorrow. It's everything I've ever wanted and so much more.

As you know, I usually use my very best effort not to allow myself to scream. It really isn't a good look on me. Usually, I'm pretty successful at keeping it in.

This is not one of those times.

"Is that a yes?" Derek laughs, trying to catch me as I bounce around the room as if I'm on springs. "Are you saying yes?"

I stop moving and launch myself at him. "Oh, honey, yes, it's a yes. It's the yes-est of yesses that ever existed." I circle his neck with my arms and push myself onto my toes. I kiss him hard and fast, and then softly, slowly, taking my time when I realize I have the rest of my life to kiss this man.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," I say into his mouth.

When we come up for air, Derek slides the eternity band onto my finger. "They're French-cut diamonds," he explains, turning my hand in his to admire his work. "They're rare. Vintage and timeless. The cut is precise, pretty and hard and soft at the same time. Perfect, like you."

It is perfect. A dazzling, shimmering strip that winds all the way around my ring finger. It's tasteful in the extreme, but just excessive enough for it only to be worn successfully by a person who's a little bit extra.

Me, in other words.

By the time we leave the gallery, I feel like I did the night Derek and I became goo. I feel different, changed. New.

The scent of pine needles and citrus hits me as we walk out of the gallery. I pull up my collar and tuck myself into Derek for warmth. He wraps an arm around me. I think it's to fight off the cold, but it isn't. It's to steady me.

As soon as the first cold blast hits my face, I'm assaulted by loud hoots and applause and the sound of champagne being popped in the street. Ryan and Miller and Bridget and Anton are here, all smiling like total idiots. My mom and dad are holding up a rainbow sign with Congratulations Derek and Wyn painted on it. The two of them have that slightly overwhelmed look they always get when they're in a city that has a population of more than five hundred thousand people, but their cheeks are ruddy, and I can tell they're both fighting tears. Gould and Stuart are here too. Gould looks twice as excited as I feel, and that's saying something. He almost knocks me clean over as he lifts me in a bear hug and swings me around.

Hours and hours later, Derek and I are back in our hotel, in bed. We're sated and spent, but my heart is still racing. It feels too big for my chest. Like it's beating out of my body.

"That was the most perfect day of my life," I say again.

Derek smiles. "That was the first day of the rest of your life."