“Elle—”
She pouted prettily. “S’il te plaît?”
He sighed, but opened the box to reveal a pair of simple silver bands, one delicate, one larger. Inside the small one was the inscription “Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut.” What woman wants, God wants.
Marielle had added an inscription in Arabic to the larger one that Leilah told her read “You make my heart smile.”
“Are you asking me to marry you?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re providing the rings?”
Marielle took the ring from Omar’s box and slipped it onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
“These were my grandmother’s. Apparently she and Olivier Blanc had a small, secret wedding when she was seventy. And they had many happy years splitting their time between the auberge and the cottage. She left these for me in the cottage with a note that said if I found someone who made my heart smile, I should make it official. But to always remember to chart my own course. Like she did.”
“And does your heart smile?” Omar asked, his voice rough with emotion.
“Every time I look at you.”
He examined the inscription with a soft smile and slipped his ring on. “Then I guess we’re engaged.”
“I guess we are.”
“Without a proper proposal.”
“Without a proper anything. Very us.”
“Now you have to open my gift.”
She opened the box to reveal a small leather folio. “What’s this?” she asked.
“Open it.”
Inside were recipe cards. Dozens of them. All in Omar’s handwriting. All French pastries. All written in painstaking French.
“I promised to keep you in French baked goods for the rest of your life,” he said. “I figured I should start collecting recipes.”
Marielle burst into tears.
“Happy tears?” he asked, alarmed.
“Very happy tears.”
“So,” he said. “Are we engaged a second time?”
“I think we are.”
“Again without a proper proposal.”
“Still very us.”
He pulled her close. “We should probably tell people.”
“Eventually. But that’s not what tonight’s for.”
“What’s tonight for?”
