“Yes. There’s a little more privacy and a much better tub. But we might have to make things more official if . . . that’s . . . going to happen.”
“Sign another six-month rental agreement?” he teased, but his heart was in his throat, and the ring in his pocket was burning a hole in his leg.
“I was thinking sixty years,” she said. Firmly.
“Sixty years in Cleveland? I’ll be one hundred years old.”
“Lenka and Zuzana will be almost two hundred years old. Not to mention Charlie. Do you think we might let Darby have a room in the stable? It wouldn’t take much to make it a nice little cottage.”
“So now you’re going to take on two jobless men as part of your load?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
He sat down on the bed beside her and reached for her hand. “I don’t think Darby is going to stick around, sweetheart.”
“No?” She sounded so disappointed.
His eyes were drawn to the picture of George Flanagan and Darby O’Shea, side by side, trying to be serious and failing. The St. Christopher medallion on the rusting chain was no longer slung over the corner of the frame.
“And what about you, Michael? Are you going to stick around?” Her voice was quiet. Mild. But when he looked back at her, her mismatched eyes were turbulent. Blue sky and dark earth, the whole wide world in one small face. For a moment he just allowed himself to look, to study the landscape he wanted to call home. Then he brought their clasped hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the space between her knuckles and her wrist.
“Yes, Dani. I am.”
He took the ring from his pocket and without waiting for permission or dropping to his knees, he slid it on her finger.
Her breath hitched, but he kept his gaze fixed on the ring, suddenly so nervous he couldn’t look at her.
It was too big. He’d been afraid of that, but they could get it sized or trade it for something she liked better. He’d walked into the jeweler on the corner of East Fifty-Fifth and Broadway that afternoon and walked out again fifteen minutes later, his wallet much lighter. It was a nice ring—a gold filigree setting with a garnet center—but he had no eye for such things. It was the girl he was sure of. The ring was just a formality.
Dani didn’t squeal or flare her fingers to study the effect as he’d seen other women do. She closed her hand into a fist, curling her fingers around the loose band as if she was afraid it would slide right off again, or worse, that it didn’t mean what she thought it did.
He brought her clenched fist to his chest, pressing it to his heart, and made himself meet her gaze. She was silent as her eyes searched his. She needed him to say the words.
“Will you marry me, Dani Flanagan?” he asked, his throat tight.
“Yes, Michael Malone. I will.” No hesitation. “But we’re going to have to live here. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do.”
She exhaled in gusty relief. She must have been holding her breath because she hiccuped and then giggled.
Joy bubbled up in his throat, and his heart swelled beneath her fist. He smiled, unable to help himself, and Dani pulled her hand from his and gripped his face, pressing her mouth to his. But she was smiling too, making the kiss more shared laughter than intimate caress. He wanted to kiss her senseless, but try as he might, his mouth would not form the proper shape to accomplish the task. So he let himself grin like a fool and nuzzled her throat instead, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her down onto the bed.
The scent of her skin, so dear and so distinct, flooded him, and he stilled, his face buried in the crook of her neck. He wanted to pray. He wanted to confess. To moan the Rosary in humble adoration, but he suddenly didn’t trust himself to speak. His emotions were too close to the surface. Dani was whole and well and in his arms, and he was home.
“You aren’t going to tell me no again, are you, Malone?” she asked, her pulse thrumming against his lips, her hands stroking his head.
“No, Dani,” he said.
They laughed again, like children up to no good, awake past their bedtime, struggling to be quiet yet unable to quiet their delight in each other. He just wanted to touch her. To trace every beloved line. He brushed his fingers over the tip of her nose and the swell of her lips, his mouth following his hand. He continued down her throat and across her breasts, resting his rough face against her soft heart, and their mirth dissipated into the mellow light of the room and the reverence of adoration.
He rose over her and kissed her the way she loved, the way he loved. He kept his mouth on hers even as he dispensed with her nightgown and slid her silk underthings from her body. He proceeded slowly, aware of the house breathing around them, the creak of old walls and old women, and when he reared back slightly, just to drink her in and find his self-control, she divined his thoughts.