“You asked to explore with me there once, and I was only able to give you a few hours,” he continued. “This time, we go without crisis. Without pursuit. Without interruption. Just to walk ancient streets and allow you to be admired appropriately,Dr. Ripley.”
I made a broken, overwhelmed sound that was not dignified and did not care.
“You booked a celebration trip to Scotland?”
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“You absolute overachiever,” I whispered.
“I love you.” His thumb brushed just under my jaw. “Dr. Ripley.”
The low, reverent, and slightly possessive way he said that should have been illegal.
Not as a title.
As a fact.
My knees nearly betrayed me.
“You don’t get to say it like that,” I whispered.
“I believe I do,” he replied.
“I still can’t believe it’s real.”
He smiled. “I can.”
We ate on the couch with our knees pressed together, sharing plates and stealing bites from each other’s forks. The wine tasted better than it had any right to, probably because everything did. The music drifted through the apartment, filling corners that used to hold my doubt and turning them into something warm and gentle instead.
He listened while I talked. About the interns and their dramatic reactions. About the catalog entry. About how myhands had shaken when I slid my book onto the shelf. He listened like every word mattered, like this small, ordinary day was just as important as any grand adventure we had ever had.
Later, when the city had quieted into that low, steady hum that only New York makes after dark, he pulled me into his arms. We stood there in the middle of my living room, the city lights casting a faint glow over the apartment.
“This,” he said, resting his forehead against mine, “is part of your life too. I didn’t want it to disappear.”
My throat tightened. “Thank you.”
He kissed me then, full of promise, like he was telling me without words that he was here to stay. When we broke apart, he looked at me with that familiar, devoted smile and bent down slightly.
“Come here,” he said, then swept me into his arms, carrying me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I laughed, looping my arms around his neck, my heart light and full.
“This feels very much like a honeymoon,” I told him.
“I’m aiming for that,” he said, heading toward the bedroom.
The world outside faded away as he carried me down the hall, into warmth and quiet and the life we were building together.
I had everything I ever wanted.
And for the first time in my life, I believed I deserved it.
EPILOGUE
ARTHUR
