One More Night(46)

He stood up, and walked to the other end of the bar, finding the blonde bartender. She nodded as he spoke, then he returned to her. “But you know about it already. The gift.”

“Oh.” Flip-flop. The wings folded in. So much for that flicker of hope.

“The necklace I was telling you about before?” he said insistently, making a rolling gesture with his hand, as if to prompt her memory.

“Right,” she said, her mind returning to the story he’d told her before she fell asleep.

He dug into the pocket of his pants, and handed her a small gift, wrapped simply in purple tissue paper. “Fitting color,” she said with a smile. She was not going to be ungrateful for this gift, and for all he’d done.

Placing the small package on the metal counter, she untaped the paper. But he stopped her, resting his hand on top of hers. “Wait. I want to say something first. I want you to know how much I have loved this weekend with you, even in spite of everything that went wrong. And it has been my absolute pleasure to shower you with gifts.”

Warmth rushed through her body, and she couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on his soft lips, then returned to the gift and unfolded the tissue paper.

There it was. The Purple Snow Globe he’d had made just for her. The clasp on it was twisted, and the sight of the slightly mangled bar made her throat hitch.

“It might still work,” he said. “Let me try to put it on you.”

She lifted up her hair, and he grinned wickedly at her. “Now, all I want to do is lick and bite that neck when you show it off like that.”

“I wouldn’t object,” she said as the bartender served a pair of mojitos to nearby patrons.

But there was no licking or biting, only the soft slide of his hands as he tried to fasten the necklace. The clasp didn’t want to slide in through the hook. Too many bumps and bends in it. He held it closed with his hands. “We’ll get it fixed back in New York.”

She glanced down at her chest; a silver martini glass with a purple gem on it rested against her skin. A swizzle stick popped out of the glass. “I love it.”

“Gorgeous,” he said, appreciatively, letting the necklace fall into his hands, and tucking it safely in the tissue paper. “Makes me think of the night we met.”

“When you didn’t order my signature drink,” she teased, reminding him of that first night in San Francisco.

“No. But I managed to have one anyway, when I licked it off you,” he said, now reaching for her hand. This trip down memory lane had a way of erasing all the frustrations she felt earlier. “And I wanted you to have this as the final gift this weekend, because it only seemed fitting for the last gift to be one that reminds us of how we met.”

Last gift.

Then it hit her. This didn’t have to be the last gift. It might be the last gift he gave her, but there was no reason she couldn’t give him a gift. She didn’t have a tangible one with her, but whoever said she couldn’t ask him? She wanted to marry him, she wanted to be his wife, and she’d never lived by the rules, not when it came to men and not when it came to life. She was a gambler, a woman who took chances, and even if he said he’d been carried away in bed, so what? She knew his heart and she certainly knew her own. Why the hell did she have to wait for him to officially propose? She started to speak, figuring there was no point planning it out in her head. Just dive in headfirst, and ask the man you love to be with you always.

“Clay,” she began, squeezing his fingers tighter in emphasis. “Remember earlier tonight, when—”

He cut her off. “Where are our drinks? This is taking a long time.” He held up his hands in frustration.

Her brow creased. “It’s busy. It’s a Saturday night. I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.” She took a beat. “Anyway, so—”

He shook his head. “This is ridiculous,” he said harshly.

She reached for his arm, trying to settle him. He was never like this. He wasn’t an impatient man who bristled at slow service. “It’s fine. We’ll get our drinks in a few minutes,” she said calmly.

“Everyone else is getting their drinks,” he said, pointing to the bartender now serving a Manhattan to a man a few seats down.

“Then I’m sure we’ll be next,” she said, trying to reassure this unexpected ire from him.

He shook his head, and she swore he was about to start blowing steam. His jaw was set hard, and anger flared in his eyes. “I’m just going to do it myself.”

He stood up, heading to the other side of the bar. Her jaw dropped. Was he crazy? “Clay,” she hissed, forgetting about the proposal. “You can’t do that.”