“I won’t.”
Gideon claps my shoulder. “Good. Because if you hurt her again, you’re going to have to explain to the whole family why you lost her.”
Chapter eight
I exhale with relief before pulling him into a hug and bury my face in his shoulder for a heartbeat. “Gideon … I love you. Thank you for making this so easy on me, and I’m sorry if I caused you any pain.”
“You didn’t.” He kisses the top of my head the way he always has, brotherly and sweet. “Take care of each other. And if he ever hurts you again …” He shoots Creed a half-grin, half-warning look. “I’ll use the family privilege card and break his jaw.”
Creed nods. “That’s only fair, baby brother.”
Gideon steps back, with a last tip of his head, and walks into the shadows. The cameras are still rolling as I turn to his brother, who doesn’t wait for Elena’s cue or for the producers to hand him the final rose.
He takes a long stride forward and drops to one knee right in front of the world with an emerald ring glinting in his palm. My pulse thuds in my ears. Emerald is my birthstone, but he wouldn’t propose on camera, would he?
“Lyssa, I’ve carried you in my heart through every blizzard, every whiteout, and every night I climbed poles in the dark just to keep lights burning for people who needed them. But the only light I’ve ever really needed is you.” His hand trembles a little when he holds out the ring.
Oh my God, he’s really doing it. This is really happening.
“Marry me. Let me wake up to your smile every morning. Let me hold you through every winter. Let me be the man who never lets go again. Let me spend the rest of my life proving I’m yours forever.”
Tears stream down my face. I’m laughing, crying, and shaking all at once. “Yes,” I whisper. Then louder, for the cameras, for America, for him: “Yes. A thousand times yes.”
I pull him up to his feet. He slides the ring onto my finger, and it fits as if it was always meant to be there. Then he kisses me slowly, with his hands framing my face and thumbs brushing away tears. When we break apart, we press our foreheads together, breath on breath, and he whispers so only I can hear: “Mine.”
“Yours,” I breathe. “Always.”
The lanterns flare brighter. Applause erupts from the crew.
Elena’s voice rings out, half-laughing, half-awed: “America … I present your final couple, Creed and Lyssa!”
I don’t hear the rest of her spiel, or whatever the booming-voiced announcer is saying.
All I feel is him. My warm, solid home.
Finally.
Forever.
Paris in spring is everything the postcards promise and more. The chestnut trees are blooming along the Seine; the sunlight glints off the Eiffel Tower as if it’s showing off just for us, and the air is sweet with rain-washed stone and fresh croissants.
We’ve been married three weeks. Gideon and Zephyr finally fessed up that Gideon joining the show was part of a secret plan they concocted to get Creed to make a commitment to me. Once on the set, he realized it wasn’t necessary or even possible to make Creed crazier in love with me than he already was, but he had no regrets. It was one of the nicest, albeit weirdest, things anyone has ever done for us. Creed still looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him steady in a storm.
Today, though, I’m the one calling the shots.
We start at a tiny cafe in Le Marais where the croissants are so flaky they shatter when you bite into them. Creed’s possessive hand has been on my thigh under the table the whole time. He’s in a dark button-down rolled to the elbows, showing off the corded muscles I love to trace with my tongue.
I’m wearing a simple red sundress with no panties to give him easy access. When I told him this morning, I thought he’d faint.
“Keep looking at me like that, wife,” he murmurs over his coffee, “and we’re not making it past breakfast.”
I lean in, brushing my lips against his ear. “Promises, promises,” I tease, just as the server returns to our table.
After my handsome husband pays the check, we wander the city hand in hand, then arm around waist, then his fingers lace through mine as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish. We get caught up in each other again and kiss, standing in a charming square, ignoring the tourists snapping photos around us. He growls against my mouth when a street musician starts playing something romantic on an accordion.
“French,” he mutters. “They’re all in on it.”
I laugh and pull him toward the Seine where we buy crepes from a cart: Nutella and banana for me, ham and cheese for him, and eat them sitting on the stone wall with our legs dangling over the water. He feeds me a bite of his and I lick a bit of gooey cheese from his thumb.
