Propose To Me

by Caroline Andrus

  The smile budded in the pit of my stomach and grew, spreading through every fibre of my being. As we descended the stairs, I said, “What about Becca?”

  He stepped up to me, his body close yet not touching. “Would you like me to invite her, too?”

  ~ * ~

  The following Thursday, we were back in the coffee house.

  I needed it today. Tea was all very well for breakfast, but the extra kick the caffeine and sugar provided would help stir me from the sludges of a cocktail overhang. Hangover. Whatever.

  Our window table was free but still dirty. I slunk in the chair and lifted the cup, hoping the aroma alone would work wonders.

  A whisper of a kiss floated past my ear. I shivered.

  “Exceptional.”

  Puzzled, I watched him down half the contents of his cup. “The coffee always tastes the same and I forewent the muffins, so what’s exceptional?”

  His eyes lit up with amusement. “You are.”

  I kept my face neutral while my body hummed. “I am?”

  “Of course. I have never enjoyed an evening more. We should do it again, sometime.” Then he looked surprised. “Oh that’s right, we did. Last night.”

  Last night had been our second dinner date, and afterwards we had walked for hours along the beach. Best night of my life. However, Saturday night? “You spent the entire evening on Saturday dissecting my personality.”

  A smile wound across his face. “And last night you dissected mine. With a little less success, I’ll admit, but it made for great entertainment.” He eyed my short skirt. “I can’t believe you turned down the decadent fudge cake. This Saturday, come to my house and I will make the most calorific dinner and dessert for you. I need to get you back to your target weight.”

  “Cal-horrific,” I corrected. “Besides, I have reached my target weight, thank you.” I had not been interested in chocolate or cake or ice cream for several weeks.

  “All right then, my target weight.” He scooted out from behind the table and shot downstairs, returning a minute later with a slice of death-by-chocolate cake. Waving it under my nose and flashing his fingers in a supposedly hypnotic manner, he purred, “You want it. You know you do. It’s healthy. Your poor, deprived, depleted fat cells are starving.”

  I pushed it away. “They can go on starving. I have no intention of returning to cuddly.”

  He pouted. “Not even for me?”

  “Nope.”

  “So I just have to accept you as you are, now?”

  “Yep.”

  He tapped a finger on his lips and thought about this. “Do you promise not to get any thinner?”

  I laughed. “Calum always had the opposite complaint.”

  “Like I told you, Calum is a fool.” He finished his coffee. “So, now that you are a free woman, do you accept my invitation to dinner at my house on Saturday?”

  ~ * ~

  We broke our habit and met on Sunday morning for coffee. The place was crowded so we stood at the bar. Just as well. This would be a very short coffee. I was annoyed and glared at him icily. “You invited Becca.”

  He shifted sideways and leaned his elbow on the bar. His eyes gleamed. “Don’t forget Lauren, or God Bless Her Soul. I invited her, too.”

  I stepped on his foot, grinding my heel in. “You invited three women, and then sat there and laughed while two of them tried to outdo each other in securing your attention.”

  “And the last slice of cake.” He chuckled. “Oh, come on, you have to admit it was hilarious.”

  “For you, maybe. For me it was like being with Calum all over again.”

  “Except you knew my attention was firmly fixed on you. I saw your lips twitch more than once.” He put his lips close to my ear. “Becca and Lauren were an entertaining sideshow and much needed, else I would have jumped on you and ripped that sexy red dress all the way off.”

  Tingles shot from my ear all the way to the centre of my being. I removed my foot from his. He shifted so that the length of his body touched mine. Fire sparked through my veins.

  “You see what I mean?” He kissed my ear lobe. “This is why we meet in public places.”

  I wanted him to kiss me all over. I didn’t care that people pressed past us on their way upstairs to find a seat. I didn’t care that the barista nudged her friend and grinned.

  His gaze dropped to my lips. All noise seemed to fade into the background, yet become a loud hum at the same time. I closed my eyes as his lips caressed mine. The warmth of his body tantalised my seeking hands, and I tugged his t-shirt out of his trousers. Hands pulled me tight against him. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sense of belonging, the promise of oneness. Then coolness, the clink of cups and the loud hiss of steam.

  He drew back. “You see?”

  ~ * ~

  We snagged the sofa upstairs next time. Hollering in triumph, I parked my bottom and slid over to make room for him.

  He landed practically on top of me.

  “Give me some space!’ I shoved at him.

  “Not on your life.” He squidged up tight. “What if some elderly woman entered in dire need of a seat?” Arranging his arm behind me, he pulled me into his shoulder and patted the space next to him. “I have been thoughtful in leaving said space. You should thank me.”

  I put a hand on his knee and slowly stroked upwards. “Your consideration is my gratification.”

  His hand enclosed mine and held it firmly in place. “If you have the slightest idea of what would happen should you continue, I beseech you to stop. Listen.” He touched his forehead to mine. “I have a question to ask you that I will never ask any other woman.”

  I stilled. Hope and fear rushed through in equal measure. It was too soon. It was not soon enough. “Are you sure you want to risk such a question on me?” I feigned interest in the Snoopy cartoon on the sugar bag. At least, it looked like Snoopy.

  “Of course.” He removed the packet from my fingers and dumped its contents into my coffee.

  “I didn’t really want that.”

  “Tush, of course you did.” He poked me in the side. “I cannot have you disappearing altogether. I wish for something to see when you are in the altogether.”

  I tensed. “What do you mean? I’m not moving in with you, not yet. It’s too soon, and although I’m over Calum, I don’t want to look like a bed-hopping slu—”

  “We’re not teenagers anymore.” He relaxed against the cushions. “We know what we want, so why not reach for it? I have something that might help you decide.”

  A small, dark blue box. He set it on the table and pushed it towards me. I touched it with my little finger. A maelstrom of emotions whirled inside me. A few weeks ago, I had been desperately hoping Calum would propose. I had never expected a proposal from a completely different man. One who had been a stranger until a month ago.

  He linked his hands behind his head, enjoying my reaction. “It’s not an engagement ring, you know.”

  I slapped his knee. “It had better not be. If I’m not ready to move in, I’m definitely not ready for that kind of commitment.”

  “I don’t believe you, but never mind. Open it.”

  A diamond ring. A beautiful solitaire. The exact one I had been eyeing in the shop weeks ago. The air whooshed out of my lungs as though someone just punched me in the gut, albeit a painless punch. Did he know? Had he seen me? I stared at it, wondering if he was playing a huge, elaborate joke on me. You know, let’s tease the sad girl who tries on rings alone in the jewellery shop. If I didn’t know he worked at the hospital, I might have believed it. As it was, I shot a look at him. Although outwardly calm, the fingers of his left hand fiddled with a hole in the chair fabric. I managed to speak. “It’s stunning. This isn’t an engagement ring?”

  “Try it on.”

  “Which finger?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “The thumb. No, you dipstick, here, let me.”

  “That’s the ring finger.”

  “
Of course. It’s. A. Ring.”

  I snorted with laughter. “What is this, if it’s not an engagement ring?”

  “Consider it a contractual ring.” He stirred more sugar into my coffee and handed it to me. “You are under contract to consider me as a life partner.”

  I sipped, taking all this in. “And if, three months hence, we decide we do not suit?”

  “You can keep the ring.” He twined his fingers with mine. “But I’m willing to bet that in three months you will be walking down the aisle toward me. There is one proviso,” and he held up a finger, “I will only wed you if you feed your fat. I do not want a skinny wife.” He shuddered.

  “Three months isn’t long.”

  He scowled. “It’s a lifetime. I tell you what, I promise not to breathe the word ‘commitment’ or talk about moving in until the three months are up. In the meantime, we’ll continue to drink coffee and ...” He took my hand and planted a kiss on the palm. “I shall woo you. How about it?”

  He said woo. I agreed. Why not? I had nothing to lose.

  Three months later

  He was there before me. No coffee on the table though. I set the tray down with a clatter, nerves getting the better of me. Coffee spilt. “You’re here and you didn’t get the coffees in?”

  “Nope. Thought you would do it. I was right.” He stuck his thumb in the direction of the mess and grinned. “Maybe I should have gotten them. Half of mine is now a moat around the cup.”

  I swatted at him with a napkin. “You can have mine.”

  He emptied a sachet into my coffee and raised an eyebrow when I reached for a second one. “Dare I hope this means you’ve decided thin is boring?”

  I tore open the bag and waited a millisecond before dumping it in. It would give me the fortitude I needed today. “Call it an experiment.”

  “An experiment?”

  “Mmm. If I don’t like it, then I have succeeded.”

  “In liking coffee.”

  “No, in adapting my dislike of coffee.” With a deep breath, I reached inside my bag and withdrew the blue box. “I have an answer for you.”

  “Shh. Don’t tell me yet.” He opened the box and removed the ring, holding it up to the sunlight falling through the window. “You know, I bought this the day I met you. Found it in a shop down the road. I wasn’t looking, or even thinking about marriage, but I found myself in the jeweller’s handing over my life savings.” He took my hand. “Well, not quite, but it felt like it. It also felt...wonderful.” He waited until I looked up. “I never asked you before,” he said. “Maybe I should have. Charlotte, will you marry me?”

  Joy surged through me. I had made my decision three months ago but not said anything for fear he might change his own mind. “I can’t promise to put weight on.”

  His finger glided up my arm to tickle the hollow in my collarbone. “There’s more than one way to ensure you get fat. Rest assured, I will do my utmost. How does Barbados sound?”

  I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. “Perfect. How does ‘yes’ sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  THE END

  About the Author

  Louise Redmann grew up by the sea in England, spent some time in the USA where she fell in love with the deserts, and now lives in Switzerland with her husband and two boys. When not chasing after the boys or teaching English, she spends many a happy hour daydreaming. Currently editing her first novel and writing her second, she also enjoys dabbling in short stories, flash fiction and vignettes.

  Connect with Louise at:

  Website: louiseredmann.com

  Blog: louiseredmann.wordpress.com

  Twitter: @louiseredmann

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/louise.redmann

  LOVE WEAVERS

  by Katie Stephens

  Dedicated to daughter Kate and future son-in-law Karl,

  celebrating his proposal to her on May 8, 2015.

  Love you both!

  Chapter One

  Lancaster, Lancashire County, UK: present day

  “Grant!” Hannah barreled through the front door of the art gallery, allowing the heavy oak to slam behind her. She slid to a stop when she spied the owner at his desk, deep in conversation with a middle-aged woman, obviously rich—judging by the Prada and Vera Wang—and obviously buying. Hannah made the latter deduction by the quick frown Grant sent her way, as well as the shooing motion of his hand when the woman glanced up.

  She nodded obediently and wandered across the marble floor where Grant had set up Glimmer Man’s mirrors. Leaning forward to examine her favorite piece, Hannah pushed away annoyance at its location between De La Garza’s oil landscapes and Schmidt’s sculptures. Their fellow artists at the gallery had earned high acclaim in the latest edition of Lancaster’s quarterly tourist journal with their pieces.

  She had to admit Glimmer Man could be considered an artistic genius, too. If she stood directly in the center of the mirror, the frame caught her dark-haired, hazel-eyed reflection hundreds of times. Brilliant. She searched for the tiny card mounted on the wall. Beauty Multiplied. $9400.

  “Wow,” she whispered. Her eyes went to the other mirrored pieces. “Grant jacked up the prices. I will not be intimidated. I—”

  “Hey, Hannah. How goes it?”

  Great. Glimmer Man himself. Hannah resisted the urge to roll or, even worse, close her eyes. Mirror, mirror on the wall, Al can see me best of all. She glanced at his reflection. “Hey.”

  Alvin Watkins raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? No disparaging remarks? No ‘How did a muscle-bound guy like you have the dexterity to handle small delicate pieces?’”

  “Yeah, well.” Hannah turned to face him. “I’m impressed.”

  Alvin put a hand to his chest and staggered backwards in a parody of a heart attack. “What? Do my ears deceive me? The amazingly perfect, and soon to be successful, Hannah Mackenzie actually likes my work? Okay, that’s it. I’ve died and gone to heaven.” He dramatically collapsed onto the nearest chair, one of many strategically placed throughout the room. “You can take me away now. My work here is done.”

  Hannah bit back a smile. Friends and rivals since high school in upstate New York, their competitiveness stayed alive and well and resided at Grant’s art gallery. The famous British curator had snatched them both on graduation day from the Art Institute, luring them across the Atlantic with promises of studio space and a hefty clientele. The new situation worked well for Hannah—her maternal grandmother lived forty miles east of Lancaster in Clitheroe.

  Over the years, Alvin had transformed from a short, skinny kid with thick, black glasses into a muscular, blond hunk with contact lens-enhanced sapphire eyes. Although she couldn’t tell him because he’d laugh hysterically and she would die of embarrassment, Hannah adored him either way. She remarked on many occasions that he should meet with potential woman buyers before Grant did. Alvin wasn’t amused. Deep down inside, Hannah knew his amazing talent didn’t need that kind of push.

  And there it was. The green-eyed monster once again rose to the forefront. The one that nudged her every single time they vied for the same client. That red haze that covered her vision when he got a sale ... and she didn’t. She tamped the monster down hard. Glimmer Man had his talent with mirrors, and she had hers with jewelry.

  She took a deep breath and smiled, allowing it to actually reach her eyes. “Very good, Alvin.”

  And that sounded like the guy in the stupid chipmunk song, only he was talking about chipmunk Simon, not chipmunk Alvin. Hannah stifled a giggle.

  Alvin, the real man, cocked his head. “What are you thinking about now? You’ve got that wicked ‘I’m-going-to-screw-with-Alvin’ grin on your face. You’re scaring me, Hannah.” He leapt out of the chair and grabbed her arm, dragging her away from his exhibit and closer to her jewelry display. “You’re not going to do anything to my stuff, are you?”

  Hannah put on the brakes, stopping in the middle of the open-space gallery. She stared at him. “Do you r
eally think I’d do something to your work?” she asked in a low voice. “Wow.”

  That he even entertained the notion devastated her. The green-eyed monster had left the room, only to be replaced by a cold, grey cloud of disappointment.

  “No.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, pulling her towards him into a hug. “Of course not. I thought we were just playing around.”

  She firmed her trembling lip and pulled back, forcing a twinkle in her eye. “Gotcha.”

  He searched her face for a moment and then chuckled, apparently satisfied with her deception. “Brat.”

  Hannah offered a cheeky grin and turned to Grant, whose customer was making her stately way out the front door. The owner did a little happy dance, a sure sign he had been the recipient of a big sale. Hannah was about to do one of her own when Grant swept past her and slapped Alvin on the back.

  “Congrats, man. My friend, Sarah Emerson, took the Aphrodite.” Grant resumed his dance on a larger scale, including Alvin in an arm swinging, he-man rendition of a Scottish reel.

  Hannah moved back to avoid being stepped on and then shrieked when the two men exuberantly swung her into the dance. Grant pulled her close enough to whisper in her ear. “And ... she took the emerald key.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened. “What?” Alvin grabbed her and swung her away from Grant. “What did you say?” she called over her shoulder.

  By contract, Grant had total autonomy to sell anything his half-dozen sponsored artists crafted in the back studios of the gallery. He provided the place; they created art. He marketed and sold the finished pieces. Everyone split the profits, with a generous percentage going to the man who brought in the clients.

  Grant skipped—as much as a grown man who weighed over two hundred pounds could skip—back to his desk. “You heard me. One person, two sales, ten o’clock in the morning, and we’ve hit our mark for the day. Anyone want to celebrate by closing down early?”