Page 148 of The Paris Match
But then, two rows up from where Layla and Griffin sat, awoman rose from her seat: blond, pink-cheeked as she turned to the side to make her way to the flight attendant.
“Maybe you’ll get the day off after all,” Griffin said, though he knew that wasn’t accurate—he knew Layla would go, too, even if there was another doctor on board. Anyway, now that he had a better look at the woman ahead, he figured she was fresh out of med school, and might need some help with whatever was happening.
He’d taken Layla’s book from her, figured he’d look at it again for however long she was gone. It’d be fine to do it different than he’d planned; it would—
“Oh,” said Layla, stilling where she was, and then slowly sitting down again. He looked over at her—her wide eyes, her soft smile—and she nodded toward the flight attendant, who was now speaking softly to the blond woman.
And directing her to turn around.
Where a man knelt on one knee, his hands raised, a ring box held between them.
It only took a few seconds for the whole first-class cabin to catch on, for the blond woman to gasp and nod and then start crying, for a smatter of applause to build as the flight attendant announced that this request was for one veryspecificdoctor, who had said yes to the proposal from her boyfriend—an airline employee who’d surprised her on today’s flight.
Layla said, “That’s sweet,” and Griffin cursed the very stupid thing he’d been reaching in his back pocket for.
“That floor,” Griffin said, nodding toward the still-kneeling man, “is probably—”
Layla laughed, leaning in to kiss him—a hard press of her lipsfirst, and then a secret swipe of her tongue across his bottom lip—and it was enough, it was always enough, to jolt him back to reality.
To sensibility.
Layla did not want him topropose.
Not now, not for a long while. They’dtalkedabout it; they’d gone over it. Their next big decision was about whether she’d do another year traveling, or whether it was time to settle somewhere—a hospital near him, or maybe somewhere new for them both. Notmarriage.
He knew that, and that’s why he’d—
Well. That’s why he’d done what was in his back pocket.
That’s why he’d made this plan.
And that’s why he knew she’d love it.
So he leaned forward again, took the folded sheet out of his back pocket. Before, he was going to say something first, something clever and romantic that he’d practiced just for her, but speaking in anything other than his native language right now—after the nerves, after that interruption—was impossible.
“Layla,” he said, which was a word he could say no matter what.
He slid the paper into her palm.
And when she smiled down at it—the secret folded square of it—he thought maybe she already knew.
Still, she unfolded it slowly, calmly, stealing glances at him, her cheeks a prettier pink than the blond who was still giggling and crying up ahead.
“An itinerary,” she said, when she had it open.
She was not giggling or crying, but he thought the curve of her lips, the dampness at the edges of her eyes, was his favorite sort of enthusiasm from Layla.
When they were in public, at least. When they were outside of whatever bed they found themselves in.
“A few extra days after Italy,” he said. “A little apartment for the two of us.”
“Paris,” she said. “Griff!”
She kissed him again—harder this time, longer. Very close to a not-in-public kiss.
He had to adjust himself when she finally pulled away.
“We can wander,” he said. “No pressure. You can think about what’s next.”
She smiled. A city of light all on her own, his Layla.
She said, “I know what’s next.”
And then she whispered it to him, the same way she had the very first time, in the language she’d learned only for herself.
“Griffin,” she said. “Je t’aime.”
