The kiss she gave him in return was the kiss he wanted—nervous at first, slowly growing bolder, and by the time one song switched to another, they were both breathing each other’s breaths. He pushed her gently down onto her back on the plush sofa and guided her legs around his waist. He didn’t ask for much in this world…but if he didn’t feel her heels on his lower back right this second, his heart would break right in two. When he told Paulina that, she laughed and he felt her breasts moving against his chest.

“Well, I’d hate to break your heart,” she said. “Especially when it’s so easy to keep it in one piece.” She let her heels come to rest on his back. It was enough to make a grown man cry. “Better?”

“So much better.”

Her tongue tasted sweet like the blueberry wine she’d had after dinner. Sweet and spiked and he couldn’t get enough of it. He knew marriage wouldn’t be like this all the time. He’d be a fool to think it was all low lights, jazz, and making out like teenagers on the sofa. But still, he would have married her in that room that second if he could have talked her into it. Especially since he knew any minute now…any second…she would say…

“All right, behave, Cyrus.” She said this right when he slipped his hand under her shirt and started inching up and up.

“I am behaving,” he said.

“Behaving bad.”

“Behaving bad is still behaving.” He bit her earlobe. She laughed, but she placed her hands on his chest.

“That’s enough,” Paulina said. Cyrus groaned and sat up.

“Already?”

“Already.” Paulina slowly pulled herself back up and righted her clothes and her hair. He was pleased to see she was at least breathing hard. Maybe he could flatter himself that she stopped because she was about to lose control, not him.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

“I will. I said ‘yes’ six months ago. I’ll say ‘yes’ again tonight.”

“No, I meant right now. Right damn now.”

He picked up his bourbon sour and drank the rest of it down to the rocks. He was half-tempted to take the ice in his hand and put it all down his pants.

“I will marry you on November seventh like we planned and not a day sooner.”

“I could be dead by November seventh.”

“Then I will throw you the finest funeral this town has ever seen.”

“Second line?”

“Second line, Trombone Shorty leading the way.”

“Not fair I have to miss my own funeral.”

“Better not die then,” she said.

“Better not.”

She started to stand, but he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his lap. She was heaven in his arms, all curves and warm skin and wildflower perfume.

“You’re ornery tonight,” she said, pinching his nose. “What’s gotten into you?”

He leaned back on the couch, resting his head on the back.

“It was a strange day.”