Love You More(2)

She was gone in a flash.

Dean turned to me with an amused smile, resting an elbow on the bar. “Well, that was subtle.”

“And efficient,” I said, smiling back at him.

He laughed. “Greer at her finest.”

“I hope she hasn’t talked me up too much.”

“Don’t worry—you’re already surpassing expectations.”

“So are you,” I said, my cheeks warming.

He shifted a little closer to hear me over the music, his sleeve brushing mine, his cologne clean and woodsy. “I work well under pressure.”

“Good thing for your patients.”


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His laugh was quick and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And apparently for me.”

I smiled back, already smitten, as the noise of the room blurred at the edges.

We talked until last call.

At the door I said, “This is the best conversation I’ve ever had in a bar.”

He brushed a strand of hair off my cheek. “Just wait until we’re alone.”



* * *



— I smile at the memory as we roll past shuttered shops and desolate sidewalks. Most Hamptons storefronts are closed until summer, but a weathered farm stand is open, buckets of tulips spilling over with color. We stop; I buy a bunch for Dean’s mother—a supplement to the wrapped candle I brought as a hostess gift.

From there, the road narrows, both sides flanked by sprawling estates hidden behind clipped hedges. One of them belongs to Dean’s family. As we pull through the gate, I’m relieved to see no other cars in the driveway.

“They’re not here yet?” I ask.

“No. Not until six.”

Good. Time to breathe. Dean shoulders our bags up to the guest room with an ocean view. I rifle through my suitcase while he flops on the bed.

“Walk on the beach?” he says.

“I think I’ll freshen up first. Maybe take a quick shower.”

“In that case, I’ll grab a power nap.” He yawns.

Thirty minutes of primping later, I nudge him awake.

He blinks up at me. “Wow. You look gorgeous.”

“I was going for wholesome,” I say, smoothing the relaxed pink shirtdress that Greer and Lesli helped pick from my closet.

“Wholesomely gorgeous.” He reaches for my waist, his hand warm and familiar.

Downstairs, Dean opens a chilled rosé with a waiter’s corkscrew. I smile to myself, remembering how he once lovingly teased me about my “philistine” rabbit-ear opener. It’s one of the things I love most about him—that he comes from a rarefied world but doesn’t care that I don’t. I watch as he tucks the bottle and two glasses into a canvas tote.

Outside, a breeze lifts my hem as we cross the manicured lawn and descend the boardwalk to the private strand. Steel-blue ocean, whitecapped waves, an empty horizon.

Dean pours the wine, then hands me a glass.

“To us,” he says.

“And meeting your parents.”

“They’re going to love you.”

We stroll west, gulls wheeling overhead. For a moment I forget the audition that awaits me and just breathe in the salt air.

“It’s getting chilly,” I say, checking my watch. “Almost six.”

Dean nods, deep in thought. Suddenly he stops, faces me. He says my name as a question—eyes bright but nervous.

The possibility glimmers. I dismiss it—too soon, too fairy tale.

Yet he’s kneeling, navy velvet box in hand. Oval diamond, thin platinum band. Simple, classic perfection.

“Billie, I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?”

Stunned, I manage to get the words out. “Oh my God, yes. Yes!”

My giddy laughter dissolves into tears as he puts the ring on my finger. It slides on so easily it feels like it’s always been meant for me. He takes a selfie, ocean blazing behind us, sealing the moment.

We walk back, hand in hand, beaming, talking, stopping to kiss. Every few seconds, I look down at my gorgeous ring.

“Did Lesli and Greer help you with this?” I ask as we approach the gate up to his house.

“Nope. I did it all on my own,” he answers proudly.

I start to ask if he talked to my dad, but I’m afraid the answer is no. My dad is old-fashioned, and I fear he’ll be crushed if Dean didn’t consult with him first.

When we reach the back porch, Dean gives me a final kiss and opens the door.

I step inside and sense company. Footsteps. A man’s voice.

And then—

“Surprise!”

I blink as my parents round the corner, beaming, champagne flutes in hand. Behind them, Dean’s parents. Dean’s father claps my dad on the back, laughing like they’re old friends.

My mouth falls open as I look at Dean, floored. “I can’t believe you planned all of this,” I say under my breath.

He smiles, sheepish but proud. “I know how much your parents mean to you,” he whispers.

Tears well again. My parents rush forward and hug me. Dean’s parents step in with their own hugs, congratulations filling the room.

It’s overwhelming in the best way: kisses, toasts, my dad and Dean’s mom taking endless photos.