“I’ll hold them for you.Keep going.”
My king-sized bed, with soft flannel sheets and central heating.
Concerts, beach weekends, fine dining.
Warm, fluffy towels.
Jacuzzi bathtub in front of the fireplace with surround sound.
The Peninsula Hotel, London.
Good enchiladas in mole sauce, fresh trout with lemon butter and herb sauce, and peaches right off the tree.
I’m having trouble reading now because my eyes have filled with tears.He remembered all these things.How did he remember all this?
I turn to him, blinking.
“Don’t stop, baby.I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Paella in Barcelona, kebab in Berlin, sushi in Tokyo, and thegambero rosso di Sicilia in Dubai.
A lifetime of Yosemite Ranch Wagyu ribeye steak.
“You’re making me hungry,” I say, handing over another slip of paper.
Ravishment or ravagement, whatever the hell it is.
I laugh out loud.
Shameless depravity and disorderly conduct.
“Oh, boy.”
Whisky that isn’t from the blanket chest of a surveyor’s shack.
But never any bungee jumping, skyscraper dinners, or aerial rescues.
I giggle.
Anything else you desire, always and forever.
I look at him.I’m barely holding it together.
“So there’s one left, Phoebe.And it’s the kicker.”
My fingers are shaking as I reach into the can.I pluck out the last slip of paper.It isn’t labeled as an I.O.U.It has no label at all.
But just as the little folded square clears the rim of the can, something falls out from its folds.I peer down to see a dainty silver chain coiled at the bottom.I pull it up and then hold it out in front of me.
It’s the Beefaroni pop top looped through the chain.
“Um…?”
“Do you like it?”Evander takes the chain from my hand and slips it over my head, then pulls my hair free.
“I…”
“Read the last one, please.The pop top is just a placeholder—at least that’s my hope.It’s important that you have exactly what you want.”
