“It’s not bad,” Eli mused aloud. “Not bad at all.”
Brynne pretended to whack him in the chest. His bare, muscular and extremely masculine chest.
“‘Not bad’? That’s all you have to say?”
He looked up from the sketchbook, met her gaze. Smiled. “The Creek could use something like this,” he said. “It’s great.”
“That’s better,” Brynne said.
Eli returned his attention to the sketchbook. “All right if I look through this?”
She hadn’t expected that. “I guess,” she answered tentatively.
He flipped past the half dozen drawings of plans for the Anderson farm and stopped at a sketch of Festus, airborne, about to catch a Frisbee.
“Wow,” he said.
There were more pictures: Sara, wearing an apron and holding a mixing bowl in the curve of one arm, a spoon in her opposite hand; Miranda, in her dated but always immaculate waitress uniform; Cord, J.P. and Eli seated around a table at Bailey’s, deep in conversation; various Painted Pony Creek landmarks, like the courthouse and the library and the peaceful old cemetery on the edge of town.
Bailey’s, à la Edward Hopper, with recognizable faces at the tables, in the booth, perusing the jukebox.
Eli studied that one with something resembling fascination, then looked up and grinned. “Elvis pigging out on a hamburger. Sorry I missed that visit.”
“It isn’t a hamburger,” Brynne said, pleased. “It’s a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. Don’t you know anything about the boy from Tennessee?”
He held the sketch closer to his face and squinted. “Is that the Man in Black, juggling bottles behind the bar?”
“The very same.”
“Damn, Brynne. This is amazing.” He met her eyes again, grinned mischievously. “Think you could re-create this on black velvet? We could make it the focal point of the living room.”
“Not in this lifetime,” Brynne said, feigning indignation. When it came to art, she had to admit, if only to herself, she was something of a snob. To her, paintings on velvet were akin to paint-by-number pieces.
Just no.
Eli laughed again, and Brynne was hoping he would forget about the sketchbook and its contents and hand it back.
He didn’t. He turned more pages.
Saw the first image of himself, lying broken in a hospital bed.
In the next, he was standing beside his official SUV, microphone in hand, issuing a report or calling in a report of some kind.
Finally, there he was in a tux, slightly awkward, but smiling.
Beside him stood Brynne herself, clad in an exquisite wedding gown. She was beaming, about to throw her bouquet into the waiting crowd.
Eli examined that drawing for a very long time.
When he looked up again, Brynne was blushing. He seemed wonderstruck.
“It’s only a drawing,” she said, mildly anxious. She definitely didn’t want Eli to feel cornered. Rushed.
“It’s the future,” he said quietly.
Brynne’s throat constricted and her eyes burned again. “I hope so,” she replied.
Finally, Eli set the sketchbook aside, laying it carefully on the tabletop. Then he took both Brynne’s hands into his and brushed his lips across her knuckles.
She trembled at the resulting sensations. “Eli?”
He sighed, but his eyes never left her face. “I don’t have a ring yet,” he began. “I don’t have flowers or a horse-drawn carriage, and if I try to get down on one knee right now, I might not get up again.” He paused, drew another deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Brynne Bailey, I love you more than I ever thought I could love anybody. I want us to share our lives—the good, the bad and the in-between.
“Will you marry me?”
Brynne was undone. She cried. Threw her arms—very carefully—around Eli Garrett’s neck.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.”
“Hallelujah,” Eli replied.
And then he kissed her.
* * *
“IT’S ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL,” Alice Bailey exclaimed, studying the glittering stunner of a diamond on her daughter’s left-hand ring finger.
Eli and Brynne had chosen the ring together, within an hour of Eli’s proposal, over at Johnson’s Jewelry, and then, at Brynne’s request, driven straight to Bailey’s to tell her mom and dad about the engagement.
“Must have cost you a serious chunk of change, son,” Mike said to Eli, looking somewhat concerned.
Eli smiled at his soon-to-be father-in-law. “I can afford it,” he assured the older man.
Alice jumped in to scold her husband, though gently. “Mike Bailey,” she said, “it’s none of your business how much Eli spent on this lovely, lovely ring.” As if to soften the remark, she moved to Mike’s side and slipped her arm through his, gave it a squeeze.
“When is this wedding taking place?” Miranda wanted to know. She and Frank had been hovering on the periphery of the small gathering.
“We haven’t set a date,” Brynne said, feeling as though her face might fall off if she didn’t stop smiling so hard. “Sometime in June, probably, after Mom and I have had time to design and make the dress and make solid plans.”
“This June?” Alice asked, and Brynne couldn’t tell whether she was relieved or disappointed.
“This June,” Eli confirmed.
“You and I have a lot of planning to do,” Brynne told her mother. “And my schedule is packed—Davey and Maddie will be here for a week in early April, and then there’s everything concerning the Anderson farm.”
“We’d all better sit down,” Eli said, amused by Mike and Alice’s surprised expressions.
“The Anderson place?” Mike echoed.
“I want to buy it,” Brynne said, dropping into the chair Eli pulled out for her, there at the center table. The restaurant was empty of customers since the lunch rush had just ended. “I’m making an offer first thing tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee,” Miranda said. “Since it’s too early for champagne.”
“I just put one on to brew fifteen minutes ago,” Alice told her longtime friend and employee. “Sit down with the rest of us, Miranda, and let me get the coffee.”
“Are we sure it’s too early for champagne?” Mike asked, his tone slightly plaintive.