“Waiting makes sense to me,” I say. “It’s a little close to showtime now anyway. But if he’s singing and the spirit moves you, I say charge up there and bend that knee.”

“Darcy said the same thing! And with Jane’s family and everyone here, it’s too perfect.” He sighs. “I love him so much.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He gives himself a little shake. “Thanks, Ben—Kitten. Pop a pastie!”

I watch him trot down the stairs, then finish my trek to the second floor. We opted against seating the upper level tonight, and I weave around the empty tables and chairs to the open office door.

When I look in, Darcy is at the window, observing the gathering crowd. My heart gives a familiar squeeze. He’d do this during renovations: quietly survey the day’s progress. It’s similar to how I catch him looking at me at times, no longer searching, but with something like wonder. I feel a different kind of pull toward him in these moments—he’s admiring something I contributed to. I had the vision, and he had the means to make it real. Together, we’ve created something.

Walking in, I place my steps to the side of the rug, letting my heels click on the floorboards to announce my arrival. He looks my way and I stop short, momentarily breathless at the intensity in his gaze. It’s that wonder again. There’s no getting used to it.

“Wow,” he says.

I continue toward him, executing a turn to reveal how little there is to the back of my costume.

“I repeat: wow.”

“Thank you.” I reach into his open jacket to place my hands on his waist. The contact is more grounding than the green egg could ever hope to be. “Ming yelled at me because she had to let out the bodice twice. Seems our climbing has made me Hulk out.”

“Your trapezii are looking prominent these days.” He runs his hands over the sloping muscle on either side of my neck. I clench my fingers at the shiver that follows. “It looks good on you.” He cocks his head, eyes at my neckline. “Fashion tape?”

“Always.”

“A careful removal then?”

The allusion sends a warm tingle over me. “You really haven’t forgiven yourself for the nurpling, have you?”

“It is my greatest shame,” he says, deadpan, then gives me a squeeze. “How was the interview?”