“Michael,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Still kneeling and holding the small, velvet box he whispered only loud enough for her to hear, “You asked me in the park if my public image is who I really am…” His eyes sparkled like the stones in the ring. “It’s about to be.”
He inhaled deeply and cleared his throat. “Hermia Lysander Argarapolis,” he said in a loud voice. “I’m a controlling, demanding jackass, and I don’t deserve you, but if you’d do me the honor of marrying me, I swear I’ll do my best to fill the rest of your days with joy and love.” More camera flashes and clicks.
“What about the nights?” Gladys shouted from where she and the Queen B’s were watching through an open window, and everyone, including Mia and Michael, laughed.
“Those especially.” He squeezed her hand. “You asked me what I really wanted and I didn’t answer you. Well, I’m answering now. I want you.”
He removed the ring and handed the box to a nurse standing nearby, then took Mia’s trembling hand in his and slipped the ring on her finger. She closed her eyes briefly, and then met his gaze again.
“Marry me, Mia. Please.”
For a moment, it was as if the entire city had stopped to listen for her answer. There was nothing but she and Michael, and the hammering of her heart, and the heat of his hands on hers. She was living a fairy tale. She was within striking range of a happily ever after—one she’d never thought she’d have.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud. Answer the man already!” Gladys shouted.
Michael’s intense expression held her spellbound for a moment. He appeared to be holding his breath—as if he didn’t know that for Mia there was only one possible answer to his question.
It was barely above a whisper, but that was all she could manage. “Yes.” She cleared her throat and found her voice as the cage around her heart flew open. “Yes, Michael. Yes.”
He wrapped her in his arms and swung her in a circle as Clancy barked and yipped. This time when the camera shutters snapped, it didn’t sound like gunfire. It sounded like applause.
Epilogue
Even wearing noise-cancelling headphones, Mia knew Michael had arrived home from the office because Clancy bolted from his dog bed in the corner of the studio. She lifted her brush and smiled, her body heating as she remembered the promises he’d made when he’d left that morning regarding ratios and how he planned to meet them. One thing about Michael Anderson—he always made good on promises.
Using every bit of self control she had—which was considerably more than before she’d met him, she pushed down the urge to strip off her paint smock and run to the living room to meet him. Instead, she dipped her brush again and continued work. This new series was almost finished and she had contracts for two more.
With her time divided among Heart’s Home in the morning, her private commissioned art in the afternoons, and Michael in the evenings, her life had fallen into a blissful routine. Her smile broadened. Who would have ever believed she’d have any kind of routine? She shook her head and dipped her brush again, waiting for Michael to appear through the doorway dividing her new studio from their apartment, glass of scotch in hand.
Chills shot up her spine as Michael’s warm lips traveled across the nape of her neck instead. He’d departed from his evening ritual, which fired off alarm bells and all kinds of flutters in her belly. She pulled off the headphones and turned to face him, mind racing to figure out what had disrupted his unbreakable routine. He gave nothing away in his face. “You’re doing it again,” she said.
His expression and voice remained placid and controlled. “Doing what?”
Placing her brush on the ledge of the easel, she fought back a grin. “That thing you do when you’re trying to pull something over on me.”
Still wearing his overcoat, he arched an eyebrow. “Hmmm. I’m not sure what you mean.”
She untied her paint smock. “Yes, you do. Like when you surprised me by buying this apartment and converting it into an art studio.”
“Ms. Braxton was more than happy to sell it to me, especially since I offered twice what she paid for it.” Still, his face remained completely unreadable. “And I’m not at all sure that qualifies as pulling something over on you.” And then he did something peculiar—he placed his hand on his chest, his face registering surprise for a fleeting moment before going back to placid.
She circled him, trying to figure out his game. “You also did this when you came back from the psychiatrist last week with Clancy.”