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“You should have called first,” I admonish, looking up at him. “I have a post I need to get published.” I swing the door open but point to the kitchen table. “You are banished here until it’s done.”
He shuts the door behind him. “This can’t wait,” he says, his tone urgent.
“Ben…” I shake my head at him and point a finger. “Like it couldn’t wait the night you wanted to drive to San Francisco even though I needed to watch Call the Midwife? I’m going to lose interest and clicks on this post if it doesn’t go up, like, yesterday.”
Ben smirks and reaches for my finger, using it to lace his fingers with mine. “No. Not like that. Pack a bag.”
“That sounds exactly like that—no exotic locales today, sugar daddy.” I scoot away from him and head back toward the couch and my laptop.
Ben catches me by the waist. “Burke called. They want us in New York by this afternoon. Told me to rent a jet to get us there as soon as we could. There’s a car waiting for us outside.”
My irritation with the possibility of not getting my post published disappears as I lean toward him. “Do you think they found something on what Gibbons was doing in 1928?”
“Do you know how much it costs to rent a private jet? I’d hope he wouldn’t summon us to New York with all possible haste without something really good.” He leads me toward the closet and opens it, pulling out the duffel bag I used on our last trip from the floor.
I bite back a smile, even in the tense atmosphere, and raise an eyebrow.
“What?” he asks when I don’t move to put anything in the bag.
“All possible haste?” I tease.
He reaches over and puts his hands on my waist, drawing me closer. “Yes. All—” He kisses my forehead. “—possible—” Then my nose. “—haste.” And ends on my lips, taking his time over that kiss and making me lean into him.
“If we had time to make out, I had time to publish my post,” I say when we pull apart.
He shakes his head. “I rented the jet. The car is waiting.” He drops another kiss on my lips and steps back, gesturing toward the bag on the bed.
Ten minutes later, I stride out the lobby door with my bag over my shoulder to meet Ben standing by the door of the car he hired—which he always says is more private than hiring a taxi and more convenient than paying for parking for his car. Which is also too expensive to leave in a lot for who knows how long.
Today’s car is a black SUV, which I eye with a raised eyebrow as the driver holds the door open for me and takes my bag.
“You’re taking this secret agent thing too far,” I say to Ben as I get in on the other side.
“I can’t help it.” He shrugs.
Once the SUV pulls away, Ben turns to me. “Before we go this time, whatever it might be for, there’s something I want you to have.”
I furrow my brows at him, nerves tingling through me. “What do you mean?”
He shakes his head. “It’s … it doesn’t have to be a big deal. Just something important to me.” He takes out a small, red gift box and holds it out. “You don’t have to answer. It doesn’t need to mean anything yet. I just want you to know this is what I want. Concretely. And you can still take as long as you want to decide what you want. Years, even. But this is my promise.” His words come out in a rush, and I hold my breath, knowing what’s inside the little box before he even flicks it open.
When I see the ring inside, my breath catches in my throat. It looks vintage, authentically so. The main diamond is small, probably half a carat, and European cut, but it’s flanked on all sides by dozens of smaller ones in an oval-shaped, art deco pattern.
What am I supposed to say?
His face falls with every moment that I don’t say yes, and despite his words, I know that some part of him had hoped I would put it on.
“Ben … you know how much I love you,” I hurry to say. Anything to keep the disappointment in his expression from mounting.
He shakes his head quickly. “I meant what I just said, Clara. This doesn’t mean anything is set in stone. Pun intended.” The joke is to cover his feelings.
I take the box. It’s the least I can do. “It’s beautiful,” I say softly, staring down at it. “How old is it?” I ask.
“1920s,” he says, his eyes dancing as he leans toward me. “You looked natural in those clothes and those hairstyles. This seemed like a good idea.”
I nod. 1928 had been a good fit for me, and with Ben’s ring in my hands, I have to ignore a big reason why that was. “It’s incredible.” That’s not a lie. This gesture, to pick a ring so perfect for me, means a lot. He didn’t pick something huge and ostentatious to wow me with his money. This ring is probably plenty expensive, but the thought that’s gone into it is what impresses me.
“I’m glad you like it.” He kisses me gently and turns to the window, watching as the trees fly by. I stare at the ring until we arrive at the airport. I want this life with Ben so much. So why can’t I just say yes?
