“Oh yes, laugh all you like,” he said darkly. “But she twists, you see.”

They reached the book section, an elegantly laid-out space with dark wooden shelves and a selection of beautiful tomes laid out on display. She crossed to a particularly lovely book, bound in embossed burgundy leather, and opened it. “The Principles of Interior Decoration,” she said. “By Edna Bellingham. This was brought out by my publishing firm last year.”

Sam looked over her shoulder. His nearness had all her senses singing. “Nice organization,” he said.

“It is,” she agreed. “It’s why I inquired with them. But this is aimed at a fairly exclusive audience—it’s geared towards society women, and the price matches it. This leather binding is beautiful, but middle-class women probably can’t afford it. Or at least not easily. Mine’s going to be brought out in cloth binding, with a paper cover over it.”

“Less fancy, more accessible.”

“Exactly.”

He leaned against the shelves, facing her. “You know, you’re the first published author I’ve ever met.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Sam, everyone in your family is a published author. And I’m not published yet.”

“You will be,” he said. “And scientific papers in journals aren’t the same. You’re going to have a binding.”

Alva rolled her eyes and closed the book. “It’s amazing, the excuses you find to think well of me.”

He looked at her like she was the odd one. “Alva, three days ago I proclaimed my undying love and devotion to you and asked you to marry me. I simply cannot fathom why you are so constantly surprised by the height of my esteem for you.”

She opened her mouth. Shut it. Looked around the book section to make sure no one had overheard them. Opened her mouth again, and of all the things she should have said, the one to come out of her mouth was: “You never said undying.”

“It was implied by the whole marriage thing. Oh, look, here’s a whole book on trains!”

The sun was sinking towards the horizon when they stepped back out onto the sidewalk, a florid, hazy orange thing painting the Manhattan streets in delicate, wispy light. The packages—and there had been a lot of packages—had been sent on to the hotel.

“Cab or walk?” Sam asked.