She tugged his hand. “Come on. This one’s quick.”
“I’ve been lied to before,” Gage said, but he let her pull him anyway.
Forty-five minutes later, he was standing next to her at a stall covered in artisanal cheeses, his sleeves rolled exactly three inches, expression somewhere between resigned and quietly amused.
Bea handed him a toothpick.
“Try this one,” she said. “It’s got truffle.”
He raised a brow. “Should we be eating food that markets itself with the word ‘funk’?”
She ignored him, already lost in a swirl of delicious-sounding names and tiny samples.
A moment later, he pressed a small but weighty bag into her hand.
She peeked inside.
Fig and rosemary jam. Candied butter pecans. Pule cheese. Gruyère AOP Réserve. Ibérico ham. Honeycomb. Like he was trying to recreate the most expensive charcuterie platter in existence.
“Gage.”
“For your cheeseboard.”
“I don’t have a cheeseboard.”
“You do now,” he said. The vendor passed Gage the leaf-shaped slab of polished wood he’d just purchased, all elegant curves and artisan detail. It looked too beautiful to actually be used.
She smiled. “It’s gorgeous.”
By the time they reached the edge of the market, Gage’s bag was even heavier, with olive oil and a bottle of fancy hand cream she hadn’t meant to buy.
They hadn’t made it to lunch yet. But she’d had dessert—hot, fresh, filled with strawberry jam.
She remembered a moment like this last year when he’d brushed sugar from her cheek and told her he loved her.
This time, she said it first.
“I love you, Gage.”
His head tilted as he looked at her. “I know.” Then, wry: “Can we eat now?”
Bea climbed onto the bed beside Georgina, and laid against the tall pillows. Georgie’s room was all perfectly arranged candles, linens, and soft finishes. It was like stepping into a lifestyle spread calledWomen Who Wake Up Like This.
Their faces were mid-marination under Korean sheet masks. Georgina had two claw clips in her hair. Bea had given up and let hers flop sideways, half mummified by the snail essence or whatever it was currently doingintense cellular renewalon her cheeks.
Bea stretched out one leg, then the other, ankles knocking against Georgina’s giant satin-covered hot water bottle.
“I’m just saying,” Bea murmured, trying not to move her mouth too much, “if Hunter showed up with a ring, you wouldn’t exactly throw it into the sea.”
Georgina reached blindly for a grape from the little marble dish on her nightstand. “I would if it were a cushion cut.”
Bea laughed. But not too hard. “That’s fair.”
“Seriously,” Georgie continued. “I told him. No proposal this year. We’ve only been together ten months, and I’ve known him since I was fifteen. I’m not about to end my university experience by becoming Hunter’s fiancée.”
“So youdothink he’s going to propose.”
“He’s in love. And who knows? I might love him back.” Georgina plucked a macaron off the tray, broke it in half, and handed the bigger piece to Bea. “But he’s not subtle. He asked me if I preferred circles or ovals. Then added ‘for a mirror.’ Honestly.”
