Page 232 of Terms of Exposure
"Let me finish."
He reached up, his thumbs brushing my cheek.
"I can't undo what happened. I can't take back the way you felt when you realized who I was. The way you cried in that bathroom while I sat at this table, knowing I'd destroyed something precious."
He gestured at the flowers surrounding us. "But I can give you this now. A new memory. A better one."
I laughed—a noise so full of love I thought I might burst.
His smile was like a sunrise as he pulled me into his arms.
We'd survived.
The flowers released their scent as the candles flickered against the wine bottles.
Eventually, reluctantly, his arms unwound.
Damien pulled out my chair and I sank into it.
"How long have you been planning this?"
"Longer than I'd like to admit." A sheepish smile tugged at his mouth as he took his seat across from me.
"I had to coordinate with the restaurant weeks ago. Everyone thought I was proposing."
Proposing?
My blood ran cold.
"Everyone here helped. When I explained why this restaurant mattered—why tonight mattered—they were all in. Marina's doesn't usually allow celebrations like this, but the owner made an exception."
"Because you're Damien Holt?"
"Because I told her the truth."
He reached for my hand, his thumb tracing slow circles across my knuckles.
"That I wanted to give my woman the night she deserved—the one I stole from her the first time."
"You're going to ruin my makeup," I managed, dabbing the inner corner of my eye with the corner of my napkin.
"Good." He grinned wide. "It means I'm doing something right."
The waiter appeared with wine—the same cabernet I'd ordered before. He filled each of our glasses with practiced precision.
Damien released my hand and lifted his glass as the waiter slipped away.
"To us," he said, candlelight glittering along the crystal. "Then, now, and always."
Our glasses met with a soft clink, and I drank—the wine rich and smooth on my tongue.
I set my glass down, gesturing around the room. "This is too much."
"It isn't nearly enough," Damien countered, leaning back in his chair. "I promised I'd buy you hundreds of flowers, thousands, millions."
I chuckled, catching the callback—the night we'd danced among the petals. "What about the moon on a pedestal?" I asked. "Do I still get that?"
He shrugged. "I tried to contact NASA, but apparently even I don'thave that much pull."
