I cling to Lance’s shoulders as he carries me through the apartment. Until we’re outside, the wind whipping my hair into a frenzy around us.
Slowly, oh so slowly, he releases me and I slide down the front of him, our new surroundings coming into focus. I gasp. Lance has recreated the yard of his Hamptons house. Artificial grass covers the two thousand square feet, cushioned chairs surround a gas fire pit, and a hammock sways gently beneath a gazebo. Instead of a pool, there is a massive blue demilune couch, as big as a bed, with a sunshade arching overhead. A teak dining table is arranged beside a grill. And a bar is set up in the corner, with a sweating bottle of beer, a margarita glass, a bottle of tequila, and two shot glasses.
My eyes continue sweeping the space as he leads me to the bar. “Lance,” I say in a hushed tone. “What did you do?”
“I took a page from your playbook, creating a space I hope you want to be in. Preferably, with me.”
I swallow, not knowing what to say. This isn’t showing up with a dozen roses and a half-assed apology. This is . . . completely over the top. It doesn’t feel real.
Lance uncorks the Patron first, pouring us each a shot and handing me one of the glasses. “Are you trying to make me forget about an ex?”
“Yes. But more importantly, I’m trying to make you forget about me—the guy I was this summer. The jackass who let you go. But me . . . I don’t want to be your ex.”
I blink, my heart fluttering as I toss back the tequila. Lance might think it’s a heartbreak cure, but no amount of alcohol can erase the past. I set the glass down on the bar. “What do you want to be?”
Lance’s mouth pulls into a blazing smile. “Your everything, or course.”
I blink again, and Lance is down on one knee, a diamond ring in his hand. “I love you, Vivienne Radcliffe. We can live here, or in the Hamptons, or in California, or anywhere you want to be. But you are my home. And I don’t ever want to live without you. Will you marry me?”
Maybe tequila really is a heartbreak cure.
My eyes fly briefly to the ring. It’s stunning. Really. I’m stunned. A clear white oval diamond, flanked by two pear-shaped rubies. It’s unique and gorgeous and so completely me.
The ring. The penthouse. The patio.
It’s all incredible.
But it’s the man I really want to drink in, my eyes bouncing right back to Lance’s face. It’s the words that tripped off his tongue, the love and hope radiating from his face. It’s the way he cradled me against his chest—like I’m precious, like he never wants to let me go. And it’s the intensity of his kiss. The way I melt from his touch.
Right now, my heart is pounding. Banging on the wall of my ribcage like an out of control metronome. I sink down onto Lance’s thighs, throwing my arms around his neck.
“I like this proposal much better than your last one.” The one where he asked me to be his pretend girlfriend.
“Please tell me that’s a yes.”
I hesitate. Because I want to say yes. The man I love just asked me to marry him in the most epic proposal I could ever imagine.
And yet . . .
“Can you walk inside, count to one hundred, and then come back?”
He blinks once, twice. Clouds of disappointment bloom in his eyes, worried wrinkles appearing at their corners. “You want me to walk inside and then come back?”
I nod, the movement jerky as I let go of his neck and stand up. “Yes.”
I don’t watch him leave. I use that time to take a few deep breaths. And then I gather our drinks and bring them over to the table, setting them down across from each other. I grab two pens from my purse, and rip two pieces of paper from my notebook.
By the time Lance returns, I’m sitting on one side of the table with my drink, a sheet of paper, and a pen, with an identical setup waiting for him
I did not like how our last interview went. This time, I’m going to be running our meeting. And I have an altogether different agenda.
He sits down stiffly in his chair, his muscles tense as if he’s bracing for rejection.
“First things first,” I say in a rush. “I’m not saying no. But I can’t say yes, either. Not until we agree on a new set of expectations and responsibilities.”
“Vivienne, I—”
“Hear me out,” I interrupt. “I never wanted to be your employee. And I never wanted you to pay me for my time. If you had given me a chance when I said I needed to work, been at least a little flexible and understanding, I think the summer would have gone very differently. But, that said—what I need you to know now is that, even though you paid me, you were never a job to me.”
“Is that why you didn’t cash my second check? Why you donated the clothesI bought?”
I reach into my purse and pull out the contract I was planning to mail. I wait as he looks it over quickly then returns his gaze to me. “I didn’t want your money, Lance. I just wanted you. The guy who looked at me like I was a beauty queen even when I an absolute mess, digging in the dirt in your backyard. The guy who picked up a toilet brush and a bottle of Windex when I asked for your help. The guy who lit up every time I walked through the door, like I was just the person he wanted to see.
“You are a great guy, Lance Welles. Not because of your money. But because you treat your Maserati like a secondhand Honda. Because you made sure Seth got everyone in the house another place—even though it was in Quogue. Because you didn’t just swing that mallet at the carnival, you made sure it actually worked first.
“As far as expectations and responsibilities go, I expect to be treated like your equal, not the hired help. I expect honest and open lines of communication. And I need to know that you will be responsible for my heart. Because it won’t survive being thrown away a second time.”
A few seconds tick by, my anxiety spiking as Lance remains silent.
“Are you . . . Are you going to say anything?”
“Are you done talking?”
A laugh skates from my throat, leaving my chest feeling hollow and fragile. “Yes. I think I’ve said enough.”
Lance pushes his chair back and rounds the table, pulling me to my feet. Our bodies connect as his fingers entwine at the base of my spine, my head falling back to maintain eye contact. “I used my money like insulation, Red. Because I was falling hard for the girl who wouldn’t let me stay inside my own house until you were sure I wasn’t some vagrant. Who lit a tree on fire one minute and looked just as fierce scrubbing a toilet the next.
“I like how you’re honest about your body and curious about mine. I like how you submit without being submissive and demand without being demanding.
“Vivienne Radcliffe, there’s nothing about you I don’t like. Until I realized that I didn’t just like you. I love you. I’m fucking crazy for you. And I didn’t know what to do with that. How to handle it.”
I swallow heavily, nerves going off in my stomach like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. “But you do now?”
“I do. I’m going to make that girl my wife.”
Just like that, the firecrackers stop, leaving just a plume of smoke, heavy enough to choke on. “So, those expectations and responsibilities—you’re good with that?
He chuckles. “So good.”