Page 50 of Hustle

I can’t help myself. I reach down and brush it away.

He looks very serious.

“The thing I’ve learned about art and about life,” he says very carefully, annunciating every word in a way that tells me despite the words, he’s practiced this a hundred times, “is that you can’t always anticipate where you find the magic. And you don’t always know what creates it.”

My throat is closing. I won’t cry.

Fuck.

The orchestra is getting louder, as the music fills the space.

“Spend your life with me, Evi,” he says simply.

That’s Seamus. Patient. Thoughtful. Honest. A good man. The kind of man that doesn’t make anything about himself, but instead invites you to grace the rest of his life with yours.

He slides a ring out of his pocket, nestled in a little black box. It’s a showstopper, glittery under lowered lights. As I peer at it, suddenly unable to speak, he glances down at the ring.

“It’s an antique. Art deco,” he says, looking up at me almost shyly. “If I got it wrong, if you don’t like it, we can get something else…”

His voice trails off.

Another beat of silence.

He’s starting to look concerned. “If it’s too soon. Or….”

He doesn’t get to finish that, because I rocket myself into his arms with a little cry of pure joy. Thankfully, he anticipates it – like he always does – and rises fast to catch me.”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, fuck yes.”

The orchestra begins to play in earnest.

“Do you want to look at some art?” he asks a few minutes later. His breath is hot against my neck.

When I look back at the table, at the musicians, he grins. “We’ve got all night. Well, until 1:59am, anyways.”

I snort.

I lead him down a side hall, where we can get a little privacy, and push my fiancée – I think I might love that word – up against the wall.

After checking that there’s no art, of course.

My lips are barely on his before someone clears their throat.

“Excuse me, Mr. Doyle?”

It’s the man I thought was the valet. “There’s another…..guest that has arrived.”

For some reason, my mind flashes improbably on Seamus’ brother Ronan inviting himself to dinner.

It makes me laugh out loud, until I see Seamus looks flustered.

“Maybe I didn’t sequence this right,” he’s muttering.

“What?”

But then he catches my hand, feels the ring on my finger – it’s a perfect fit, of course, because it’s Seamus – and then tugs me back toward the atrium with a huge smile.

A young woman in a winter coat stands holding a box.

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