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He swallowed hard. “And because you love me.”

“Deeply.”

The smile she gave him took his breath away.

Sofia didn’t tip the axis of my world. She righted it. He had been staggering on off-kilter ground for so long that he had stopped noticing the effort in it. Gabriel was right. Christopher had spent so many years trying to earn the affection of others that he’d forgotten he deserved it just for being him. But she had seen his heart and placed his boots at the front of the line.

The boot toppled from his lap with a thud and his mouth found hers. It took every ounce of his restraint not to pull her into his arms and show her an altogether different way he’d like to labour for her. Still, he kept his touch soft against her cheek and his kisses gentle, easing away when his blood began to heat.

Retrieving the fallen boot, he reached for the tin of conditioning oil and two soft cloths. Applying a liberal amount to each, he handed one to Sofia. How desperately he wanted this, exactly this, for the rest of his life. The pair of them together, navigating the thousands of beautifully ordinary moments that span a lifetime.

“Sofia?”

“Hmm?” She didn’t look up.

“Marry me.”

She did look up then.

“I know I promised to make the next proposal better, and, with my hands smelling like dead fish and the questionable origin of that smear of muck on your dress, this attempt may be even less romantic than the last, but I promise to be better at loving you every day than I am at proposing marriage. It’s only that⁠—”

“Christopher.”

He swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “Yes?”

“You could have stopped at, ‘Marry me.’” She kissed him once, hard on the mouth. “I love you, Christopher Keene, and it wouldn’t matter how, when, or where you asked me to be yours. I don’t care if your hands reek of fish or my dress is utterly defiled. My answer is a resounding yes. Yes to your ridiculously persistent friendship. Yes to loving you every day. Yes to pear trees and biscotti and waking up to your smile every morning.”

He laughed then, his joy bubbling over. “You really should have done the proposing. You’re far better at it.” Then he tipped her face up to his and brushed a smiling kiss against her lips.

Sofia met his smile with her own before softening against him, the coaxing slide of her tongue and drag of her fingers through his hair scattering his wits. He groaned and tried to pull away.

“It’s completely unfair you know. Wooing me with boot conditioning and romantic words, then taking advantage of my weakened state. Rude, Sofia.” She laughed into his lips and then kissed him again.

“Are you trying to turn me grey prematurely, madam? Please tell me you are not scaling furniture like a monkey just two weeks after being shot in the shoulder.” Christopher briskly crossed to the library ladder where his betrothed was awkwardly pulling her way up.

“It wouldn’t really be premature, Christopher. Plenty of men have silver strands at thirty-seven. And you can see very well that I am, so why would I tell you otherwise?”

Gripping her waist, Christopher tugged her down and spun her to face him, glowering. “Sofi, have you no sense of self-preservation?” He sighed and gave her a baleful look. “No, don’t answer that. I can see that you don’t.”

She kissed him. “Truly Christopher, I don’t need to hear a physician’s report to know that I am well. It scarcely hurts at all.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And do you think you’ll continue healing rapidly if you slip while climbing and have to catch your weight with your left hand?”

Her eyes drifted away guiltily.

“Sofia.” He drew out the syllables and took her face between his hands, directing her gaze back to his. Since the night in the boot room, he had gone out of his way to ensure they were not alone. Now, the relief of touching her, of feeling her flushed cheeks beneath his palms after nearly a fortnight of restraint, sizzled through his nerves. His body tipped towards hers, lust mingling with his anxiety. “Do you not know what the sight of you fighting for your life did to me? My God, Sofi, I cannot⁠—”

Sofia’s lips, patient and reassuring, feathered across his, barely touching. Their breaths mingled as he allowed himself to be soothed. Her palm, cool against his jaw, drew him closer, coaxing his mouth open against hers.

Pulling in a harsh breath, Christopher broke the kiss, dropped his forehead to her shoulder, and turned to rub his cheek and nose into the sweet curve of her neck.

“Surely I am well enough for kissing, Christopher.”

He let out a humourless chuckle. “I wish I had the self-control to stop at kissing you. Or, to be more accurate, to stop at kissing just your mouth.”

Sofia’s fingers curled into Christopher’s hips and he pressed his face deeper into her throat, luxuriating in the spill of escaped curls tickling across his temple.

“The problem is that I so clearly recall the taste of your arousal. The texture of your breasts … decadent satin and taut little berries. The scrape of your nails on my scalp just before your swollen bud throbs against my tongue.” He made a contented little hum in the back of his throat. “And what those memories do to me … stirring and sliding through my thoughts, settling heavy in my groin. The thought of touching you thrums like a heartbeat beneath my skin, impossible to ignore.”