She laughed, realized she could spend hours just laughing. “I’ve been thinking.”
“As smartypants are inclined to do.”
“Global Network is going to close—the head of the company is going into seclusion. I want to start fresh.”
“Doing?”
“I want to go back to developing software. And games. I really enjoyed that. I don’t want my whole world revolving around security and safety now.” She grinned, and this time brought his hand to her lips. “I have you for that.”
“Damn right you do. I’m chief of police.”
“And maybe, one day, the Bickford Police Department will need or want a cyber-crimes unit. I’m very qualified, and I can forge all the necessary documents and degrees. I was kidding about the last part,” she said, when he gave her a long look.
“No more forging.”
“None.”
“Or hacking.”
Her eyes widened. “At all? Ever? Can I qualify that? I’ll want to know how the virus is working over the next couple days, and after that … no more hacking unless we discuss and agree.”
“We can talk about it.”
“It’s compromise. Couples discuss and compromise. I want to discuss having your friends and family to dinner, and wedding plans, and learning how to …”
She trailed off, stopped. “There’s a bench,” she murmured. “There’s a beautiful bench exactly where I wanted one.”
“That’s your surprise. Welcome home, Abigail.”
Her vision blurred as she stepped forward to run her hands over the smooth curve of the back, the arms. It looked like a log, hollowed out, polished to a satiny gleam, and on the middle of the back was a carved heart with the initials A.L. and B.G. in the center.
“Oh. Brooks.”
“Corny, I know, but—”
“No, it’s not! That’s a stupid word. I prefer romantic.”
“So do I.”
“It’s a beautiful surprise. Thank you. Thank you.” She threw her arms around him.
“You’re welcome, but I get to sit on it, too.”
She sat, pulled him down. “Look at the hills, so green as the sun lowers, and the sky just starting to hint at reds and golds. Oh, I love this spot. Can we get married here? Right here?”
“I can’t think of a better place. Since I can’t”—he pulled a ring box out of his pocket—“let’s make it official.”
“You got me a ring.”
“Of course I got you a ring.” He flipped the top open. “Do you like it?”
It sparkled in the softening light, like life, she thought, like the celebration of all that was real and true. “I like it very much.” She lifted her eyes, drenched now, to his. “You waited until now to give it to me because you knew it would mean more. No one’s ever understood me the way you do. I don’t believe in fate, or in things being meant. But I believe in you.”
“I believe in fate, and in things being meant. And I believe in you.” He slipped it on her finger.
He kissed her to seal it, then opened the champagne with a quick, happy pop.
She took the glass he poured for her, waited while he poured a second plastic cup. Then frowned when he added a small amount to a third, and set it on the ground for the dog.
“He can’t have that. You can’t give champagne to a dog.”
“Why not?”
“Because …” She stared at Bert as he tilted his head, watched her with his pretty hazel eyes. “All right, but just this once.”
She tapped her cup to Brooks’s.
“Soon, and for the rest of my life, I’ll be Abigail Gleason.”
And while the dog happily lapped at his share of champagne, she leaned her head on Brooks’s shoulder and watched the sun lower over the hills. Of home.
