Page 72 of Julian

“That a good thing?”

“Usually.”

She studies me. “That didn’t sound convincing.”

“It depends what I’m thinking about.” I hold her gaze. “I’m deciding if I’ve been underutilizing this place… or just looking at it the wrong way.”

“Where are you landing?”

“I think it’s the latter.”

She doesn’t answer but rather files it away, the way she does everything.

“Come here.” I usher her to the patio area. The table is set at the edge overlooking the ocean. It’s my favorite view in this place.

“Julian…,” she says. “This is perfect.”

“It’s just dinner,” I say.

She laughs softly. “You say that like this is normal.”

“Come on, let’s sit and eat. I’m starving and you must be too.”

She moves to the table. I take my seat across from her.

“I should change, freshen up. This is so nice, and I must look like a wreck. Traveling can do a number on me.”

“You couldn’t look better, Harper.” And the realization settles in, quiet but undeniable. I don’t just want to be here. I want to be here with her.

“Thank you, but could I just put on a dry outfit? It’ll only take a couple minutes, promise.”

I smile and motion for her to go change. She does, returning in a devastating black dress five minutes later.

As we begin dinner, I reach into my pocket and feel the small box there, bow still affixed properly, and I realize that I’m looking forward to this with an excitement I usually reserve for playoff time.

I set my glass of Merlot down and slide the box across the table toward her, watching the flicker of curiosity cross her face. “Before we start,” I say, unable to keep the hint of anticipation from my voice.

Her eyes move from me to the box and back again. “Julian…What is th—”

“Just open it.”

Everything in her stills before she slowly opens the box and carefully handles the five-carat diamond earrings.

She looks up at me like she doesn’t trust what she’s seeing. “Julian… I—these are…”

“It’s Christmas,” I say quietly. “A time for giving gifts.”

Her gaze drops back to the earrings, her fingers hovering above them like she’s afraid to touch for fear of dimming the sparkle. “These are real… real diamonds,” she murmurs

“They are.”

A soft, incredulous laugh escapes her, and she shakes her head slowly. “I can’t accept these.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I can’t, these are too—”

“You lost one of your earrings at the game,” I remind her, leaning back slightly, keeping it conversational. “It was—is—my responsibility to replace them.”