The last thing I want is for Georgina to doubt this proposal is my idea. My desire. Or for her to think it’s some pathetic attempt to win my mother’s approval. On the contrary, I need Georgina to know, without a doubt, I already had her ring in my pocket when I saw my mother’s shocking painting, and that I didn’t scramble upon landing in Italy to get something overnighted to me.
“Hey, Smart Guy,” Georgina says. “The front door is that way.”
“I need to talk to you about my mother’s painting before we get into the car. I want to talk to you about it in a private spot.”
“Oh, Reed. There’s no reason to freak out. I’ve read your Wikipedia page, babe. I’m not expecting—”
“Stop talking, Georgina. Please.”
“I’m just saying I’m fully aware—”
“Stop. Talking. If you love me at all, don’t say another word until I’ve explicitly told you it’s your turn to talk.”
Georgina flashes me her patented “Well, you don’t need to be a dick about it” look. But, thankfully, she clamps her lips together and stops talking as I guide her into a secluded corner of the garden.
When we come to a stop, anxiety rockets through me. Fear of rejection. When I called Georgina’s father, Marco, to ask for his blessing two days ago, he gave it to me. Thankfully. But he also gave me a piece of unsolicited advice: “If I were you,” he said, “I’d bring up the general topic of marriage with Georgina before popping the question. From what she told me at her college graduation party, she’s not going to marry anyone before age thirty.”
“Yeah, well, that was before she fell in love with me,” I replied confidently. And from that moment on, I completely disregarded the man’s stupid advice and went about my business, buying Georgina’s four-million-dollar ring and planning the perfect proposal in Sardinia. I mean, please. Why would I ask Georgina’s permission to ask her to marry me, when my favorite thing in the world is blindsiding her with surprises that provoke jiggling happy dances?
But now that I’m here, and the actual moment is upon me, I’m suddenly feeling a whole lot less confident. Was Marco right? Should I have broached this topic with Georgina, the same way she broached the topic of having a baby with me? Is that what normal people do? I don’t think Georgina will turn me down. But, then again, I never thought, not in a million years, the FBI would raid my house that fateful morning and drag my father away in handcuffs.
“Are you okay?” she says, disregarding my request to remain silent. And when I look into her concerned hazel eyes, what I see there chases away my anxiety. She loves me. Totally and completely. The same way I love her. For crying out loud, she promised me forever, with letters inked permanently onto her ring finger. Which, I have to believe, whether she realized it or not, was her way of subconsciously asking me to put a ring on it.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I take her hands. “I was planning to say this to you in Sardinia in three days. But, now that I’ve decided to say it here, instead, I realize this is actually the perfect place. Because it’s where I finally understood what it means to let down my guard all the way, and let someone in, without holding back.” I take a deep breath and exhale a long, controlled breath. “Georgie, you’re the great love of my life. My queen. I’ll never want anyone but you.”
She bites her full lower lip and whispers, “I love you, too.”
“I called your father a couple days ago and asked for his blessing to ask you to marry me.”
Her eyes widen like saucers as her mouth hangs open.
“And he gave it to me. Which means, I can now do this.” With another deep breath, I pull the closed ring box out of my pocket and kneel before her. I look up at her, smiling. “Georgina Ricci, I’ll marry you tomorrow, if that’s what you want. I’ll marry you in a year, or ten. Just, please, say yes to me today. Be my fiancée. And whenever you’re ready, be my wife. Say yes.” I open the ring box, revealing the fifteen-carat, Princess-cut, pink diamond I picked out for her, with CeeCee’s help. And Georgina screams like I just poked her with a very large needle in her ass.
Laughing at her reaction, I choke out, “Georgina Marie Ricci, will you please marry me?”
Tearfully, she shrieks out her reply. The very thing I told her to say the first time I laid eyes on her at the panel discussion. “Yes, yes, yes!”
A shockwave of euphoria floods me. Quaking, smiling, swallowing down tears, I slip the rock onto Georgina’s shaking finger, lurch up, and take my fiancée into my arms. As I kiss her, joy of a kind and magnitude I didn’t know exists washes over me. I feel like I’m on top of the world. Or, perhaps, in the Garden of Eden. Because, surely, this moment, this place, and not any white sand beach in Sardinia, is paradise.
Finally, Georgina breaks free of our embrace to gift me with the best happy dance of her happy-dancing career. When she’s done, I scoop her up and swing her around, making her squeal and giggle. I put her down and grab her hand and we both stare in awe at the ring on her hand.
“It’s so big,” she whispers. “I swear I would have been happy with something so much smaller.”
I scoff. “Did you not understand the question? I asked you to marry me. Not go to prom. Go big or go home, baby. You know that.”
“Honestly, I’m going to be scared to wear it, unless you’re with me. I can’t go to the gym wearing a ring like this. Or to the grocery store. This is for, like, the Academy Awards!”
I laugh. She’s right, actually. It’s pretty over the top. “Okay, when we get back from our trip, we’ll go shopping and get you another ring—an ‘everyday ring’ you can wear to the gym or wherever, and you can wear this one whenever you’re dressed up.”
“What? No! I didn’t mean you should buy me a second ring! I meant we should return this one and get something less expensive.”
“You don’t like it?”
“No, I love it! I just can’t believe you—”
“Then that’s the end of the conversation. What I spend on gifts for you is none of your fucking business, per an exception expressly delineated in our ‘open book agreement.’”
She flushes and looks down at her hand again. This time, with unadulterated excitement. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“Why did you have it in your pocket, if you weren’t planning to propose to me today?”
“Because there was no way I was going to leave a ring worth more than a Bugatti in my luggage.”
The color drains from Georgina’s face. “No.”
“Yes. Not that it’s any of your business, of course.” Laughing at her expression, I stroke her cheek. “Georgie, you’re going to be the one and only Mrs. Rivers, forever. I’m not going to give my future wife a ring worth anything less than the most expensive sports car sitting in my garage.” I scoff at the very thought. “Now, come on, fiancée.” I put my hand in hers. “Sardinia awaits.”
We practically float through the back door, into the facility, the air between us crackling with our mutual elation.