“I’m gonna say no.”
We return to the bikes and head in the opposite direction, toward Santa Monica. We take it slow, watching the tourists and locals, talking, enjoying the day. When we reach the mall, we lock up the bikes and walk down the Promenade toward the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. Armed with frozen mochas, we continue to stroll the shopping street until Damien says he’s starving for real food and it’s time he buys me dinner.
He suggests The Ivy, which even I know is a see-and-be-seen kind of place. “One, I don’t think they’d even let us in dressed like this,” I say. “And two, it’s not exactly the best place to avoid the paparazzi.”
“Pizza by the slice it is,” he says, and we end up eating foldable slices of pepperoni pizza at tiny metal tables.
“There’s no way The Ivy could be better than this,” I say, and right now, for this day, with this man, I absolutely mean it.
I glance at the sky once we finish our pizza. “It’s getting dark. Should we take the bikes back?”
“Soon,” Damien says. “I want to show you something.”
What he wants to show me is the Pier, though I tell him that I’ve been before. “But have you ridden the Ferris wheel?”
“No,” I admit. “Is that where we’re going?”
“Man of mystery, remember? I can’t share my secrets.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“That’s one of the things I most admire about you. Your cunning intellect.”
I grin as we walk the rest of the way, then get in line for the ride. It’s surprisingly short, and we only have to wait through two rounds of passengers before we’re shown into our own little basket. Then the attendant shuts the door and up we go.
I laugh, delighted. Not only have I never been in this Ferris wheel before, I’ve never been in any Ferris wheel. It moves slowly, but the basket sways, which would be unnerving except for the fact that it’s Damien beside me, Damien with his arm around me. And now—as the basket stops at the very top—Damien reaches for the backpack he set on the floor beneath his feet.
“What are you doing?” I cry. “Don’t let go!” I glance out at the world around us. The sun is down now, and the lights from the Pier glow. It’s like living inside a fairyland. A little too high up in a fairyland, actually. “Why aren’t we moving?” I ask.
“Passengers are loading and unloading below,” Damien says. He’s upright now and holding two wrapped presents. One about the size of a pack of index cards. The other slightly bigger. More like the size of an external DVD drive.
“You brought me gifts?”
“I did,” he says.
I am speechless. “I didn’t get you anything.”
He points to the hat and the shirt.
“I charged those to your room.”
“It’s the thought that counts. But if you don’t want the gifts …” He bends over, pretending to put them back.
“No, no,” I say. “It’s all good.”
We grin at each other. “The small one first,” he says, handing it to me. As he does, the Ferris wheel starts to move again. I carefully peel back the paper to reveal a small gold box. When I pull off the lid, there are four chocolate truffles inside. “You’ve had the fondue,” he says. “But the truffles are our specialty.”
“Your company?” I ask. “The one in Switzerland?”
“I told you I’d have Sylvia order some for you.”
I can’t help the wide grin that tugs at my mouth as I pull one out. “Want a bite?”
He shakes his head. “They’re all for you.”
I take a bite and moan with ecstasy. These are easily the chocolate equivalent of nirvana.
I finish the truffle and hand the box back to Damien to carry in his pack. “Thank you,” I say. “You really do amaze me.”
“Because I bought you chocolates?”
“Yes,” I say sincerely. “And so many other reasons as well.”
He kisses me sweetly, then passes me the larger package.
“Now this one.”
I unwrap it carefully, then gasp when I see what it is. An antique brass frame with a stunning picture of the two of us in evening wear. Damien had taken me to the opera, and the paparazzi had been buzzing all around. This picture ran in the paper—I have a digital copy in my scrapbook file. But this looks like the original.
“Oh, Damien. It’s amazing,” I whisper. My eyes are locked on the image of the two of us together. “How did you get the picture?”
“Called the paper and bought a print,” he says. “You look exceptionally lovely in that photo. I suppose that means the paparazzi are good for something.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “But this, this I will always cherish.” Emotion squeezes my heart. I’ve been at Damien’s side hundreds of times, and at least as many images have been splashed across magazines and websites. But this—a picture in a frame—it feels permanent and real. It feels like the future.
I blink, suddenly weepy, but very happy.