Brooks is sitting at the small iron table on the patio. He's showered and dressed in a navy polo and khaki shorts. He's drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. An actual, physical newspaper.
He looks up as I step out. The bruising on his temple has turned a lovely shade of greenish-yellow, but his eyes are clear.
"Morning," he says. He pushes a second mug of coffee across the table. "I assumed you took it black. You seem like a caffeine purist."
I stare at the coffee. It's steaming. It smells like salvation.
"You're awake," I say dumbly. "And you're... dressed."
"My father is doing his perimeter walk at 8 AM," Brooks says, checking his watch. "It is currently 7:45. Drink up. We have fifteen minutes to look like a happily engaged couple enjoying a slow morning."
I sit down, grabbing the mug with both hands. I take a sip. It's perfect. Strong, hot, and expensive.
"How's the head?" I ask.
"Better," he says. He looks at me over the rim of his cup. "Thanks to the ice. And the tyranny."
"I prefer 'aggressive caretaking.'"
He smiles. "Whatever you call it. It worked."
He reaches into the center of the table and picks something up.
"Also," he says, folding his paper, "I have a gift for you."
I narrow my eyes. "Is it a subpoena?"
"No."
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and holds out his hand. In his palm sits a small velvet box.
My breath catches. "Brooks. What is that?"
"We're engaged," he says, his voice sliding into that smooth, public-facing register. "Engaged people usually have hardware."
He pauses, then adds, "After yesterday's... miscalculation, I had Marta retrieve something from my safe and have it delivered this morning. I'm hoping for the best."
He flips the box open.
I gasp.
It's a ring. But not just a ring. It's a vintage Art Deco emerald-cut diamond, easily four carats, flanked by baguettes and set in platinum. Stunning. Tasteful. The sort of ring I would have pinned to a dream board I pretended didn't exist.
"It was my grandmother's," Brooks says lightly. "She left it to me. Told me to give it to a woman who could hold her own in a fight."
His gaze lifts to mine, amused.
"I figured you qualified."
I stare at the ring. Then at him.
"You're giving me your grandmother's ring?" My voice drops. "Brooks, this is a family heirloom. I can't wear this. What if I lose it? What if I scratch it?"
"It's insured," he says. "Heavily. And you're not being given anything."
That stops me.
He reaches for my left hand, hesitating just long enough to register. Then he slides the ring onto my finger.
