I half blinked to hide the wince of pain inflicted by the intense sincerity of his words, and their impossibility.

He didn’t give me a chance to respond. “You said I make you fearless. Then don’t be afraid. Trust me.”

“I do trust you, and I’m not…I’m not precisely afraid. It’s more that I want us to be smart about this.”

“You want to overthink it.” He didn’t sound annoyed. Rather, he sounded like he was opening a negotiation.

“No. I want to do it right.”

“Then let’s do it right.” Quinn turned so that he was facing me, his torso angled toward mine, his arm resting on the table, his other hand on my leg. It was his you’ve-got-my-full-attention posturing. “What will it take for you to become my wife?”

I took a deep breath, glanced around the tent, noted that champagne had been poured. I reached for it, not precisely stalling, and took two large swallows.

I was bolstered by the bubbly when I spoke. “Well, first of all, I think we should wait two point four years.”

“No. What else?”

“Quinn…you asked me what it would take.”

“I’m not waiting two point four years. On the issue of time, of waiting, I will not negotiate.”

“Fine. Then how much time are we talking about? When do you propose we get married?”

“On Tuesday.”

“You mean the day after we get back to Chicago?”

He nodded.

My mouth fell open and my eyes bulged. “What? We can’t—no! And, besides, that’s the night my knitting group meets. You know that.”

He plucked his champagne from the table, appearing not at all perturbed, and shrugged. “What’s your counter offer?”

“Split the difference, one point two years.”

“Nope. I’m not willing to delay any longer than two weeks.” He shook his head. “Final offer.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Or else what?”

“Or else we get married next week, in Chicago.”

“I won’t do it—absolutely not. You…you behave as though I have no choice.”

Quinn grimaced, sipped his champagne, considered me over the rim, and said, “One month.”

“Three.”

“Deal.” He returned his glass to the table, grabbed my right hand, and shook it. “We good?”

I shook my head. “No.” Then I blurted the first idea that popped into my head. “I want a big wedding.”

His brow pulled low and the negotiation mask slipped, his features plainly betraying his surprise. “You want a big wedding?”

I nodded. “Yes. I want a really big wedding.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that about you. In fact, I would have thought you’d want something really small and simple.” He sounded and looked suspicious.

“Usually I would, but since I only have three months to manufacture two point four years of normal relationship stress, the wedding will have to be quite big and complicated, with seating charts and video montages. We’ll have a fireworks display and a band and a DJ and little favor bags for all the guests.”

“Favor bags?” He looked alarmed. Actually, he looked horrified.

“Yes. And you’ll be in charge of them as well as the programs and invitations. And you’ll have to find a groom’s cake. And we’ll have family members in our wedding party.”

His eyes, a little dazed, drifted to the Thames.

I continued multi-tasking by ticking off superfluous wedding appurtenances on my fingers while holding my champagne glass. “Then there are flowers, photographers, framed pictures of our grandparents and parents on their wedding day, centerpieces, a choreographed first dance, toasts, the tuxes and the bridesmaids’ dresses, my dress, my veil, my shoes, my bridal lingerie….”

Quinn’s gaze abruptly met mine, heated and intense, but I forged on.

“And we’re going to do all the extra stuff too, like a wedding scavenger hunt, a chocolate fondue fountain, flying doves, air balloon rides, maybe a pony for the kids, a guest book, and a signed picture frame of our engagement picture.”

He held his hands up then gripped my arms, cutting me off. “Janie, this is ridiculous. You don’t want this, I don’t want this—why would we do this to ourselves?”

“Because you won’t wait the two point four years necessary to test the strength of our relationship, to allow us to say our wedding vows with honesty and knowledge that yes, we will stick together for better or worse. This wedding—planning this wedding—is going to be a nightmare. It’s going to be years of worse and sickness rolled into three months, and we’re going to make every single decision together. You will taste hors d’oeuvres and be required to give an opinion on steak or chicken.”

I gulped the rest of my champagne, braced myself for his refusal, and readied my counter strategy.

Really, he was right. This was not me. When I thought about my wedding—specifically and at this moment, my theoretical wedding to Quinn—I thought about taking a lunch break to run down to the courthouse. Then, on the following Tuesday, celebrate with hot dogs, potato chips, and lemon drops during knit night.

But this wasn’t about the wedding; the wedding didn’t really matter. I never understood the preoccupation with the wedding day, all that planning and focus and money. It was like preparing for childbirth with no thought to the fact that, after labor, you would have a new person to take care of.

The wedding was just one day.

This was about the care and feeding of the marriage, building a lasting foundation, bonding over shared suffering, and the thousands of days that would follow.

If he refused the rigors of wedding planning, my second suggested marathon of madness was going to be dropping us off on a deserted island for one month without food, water, or shelter. In fact, as I reflected on it, I was glad that I’d launched the ridiculous wedding idea as my first volley because when Quinn rejected it, the island might actually happen. It sounded like fun. I’d always wanted to take a foraging class, and a spearfishing na**d Quinn was also a bonus.

“Okay.”

I blinked at him, startled out of my spearfishing-naked-Quinn daydream, and found him glaring at me. He looked…determined.

“Okay?”

He nodded once, taking my empty champagne glass out of my hand and setting it on the table.

“Yes. Fine. I’ll do it.”

I could feel my eyebrows pull together. I was shocked. “You’ll do it?” I croaked.

“Yes. I’ll do it. But, after it’s over, no more tests. No more fake problems or hoops to jump through—and no backing out either, no matter what. In return, you will promise me that once we get married, no waiting for the other shoe to drop.” He lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, reminding me of a conversation we’d had months ago, before we started dating, when he happened upon me at Smith’s Take-away and Grocery, and I’d explained the history behind the idiom waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I tore my bottom lip through my teeth as I thought about this promise and what it would mean. I would be giving up all the safety that comes with testing a hypothesis before taking a plunge.

“I know you love me.” His abrupt statement was said with conviction.

At his words, unexpected though they were, my mind calmed. I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the set of his jaw, the resolve in his gaze.

I nodded, agreed softly. “Yes. I love you.”

He lifted a hand and threaded his fingers through my medusa hair, gently grabbing a fistful as though to hold me in place.

“I love you.” His words were released on a breath, like the admission cost him. “I will do anything to prove that to you….”

“You don’t need to prove….”

“Let me finish. I will do anything to prove that to you. I will do anything to prove that what we have is worth a battle. What we have is worth a war. But I don’t want to spend any more of our time together fighting about hypotheticals. We haven’t done that since Vegas and Jem. It’s a waste of time.”

I pressed my lips together and nodded my understanding.

“No more steps backward. No more wasting time. You need us to prove that we can make it through a crisis. I understand that. I do.” He shifted closer, loosening his grip on my hair, his fingers moving to my neck. “In fact, I even agree with you.”

He gave me a small smile, which I couldn’t help but return, and pulled me forward so that our foreheads touched.

“You agree with me?”

“Yes, but only because I know you need tangible proof. You struggle with what-ifs, and until we’ve had our trial by fire, you’ll worry.” He pulled away so that our eyes connected as he said, “I don’t want you to worry. I want you to know.”

My eyes stung and I reflexively swallowed.

“But, once you know, that’s got to be it.” His voice held an edge of warning.

I nodded. “Okay.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes growing wide. “Okay?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t help my smile, nor could I stop two fat tears from rolling down my cheeks. “Yes, Quinn Sullivan, I will marry you. I will become your wife.”