Page 87 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“You haven’t been back to your apartment all week, and I pulled a double shift. Perhaps he’s worried about all the changes.”

“Could be. We could fix that.” Andrea giggles and her lids lower as her arms wrap around my waist. “Kiss me?”

I kiss her—and then I sink to one knee. “I think we can fix it a little better. Andrea Bernila Flores.”

Andrea’s eyes are comically wide, and her mouth forms a little O of surprise.

I try again, “Andrea Bernila Flores...” The words... The words are not coming.

They’re in my head, but not out of my mouth.

She wants a pretty proposal and a ring. I have the ring, which I pull out of my hip pocket, holding it out like a shield between her smile and myself, between her love and what will surely be her disappointment in my failure to speak.

Your smile is the only sunshine I’ve ever felt inside my heart, not on my skin.

You gave me a family.

You make me happy.

I love you—and the cat.

I don’t deserve you, but you love me for some reason.

I would give anything in the world to be your husband, your chosen one, to know that I may claim you as my wife and lover forever.

“Marry me?” I croak, ring extended higher. I wait for her to tell me I need to do a better job, make it elegant, make it musical, a song that is spoken.

“Oh, Gordon! Oh, yes. Yes, sweetheart, absolutely yes!” Andrea cries, flinging herself into me so hard I almost drop the ring. She knocks me sideways and sprawls on my chest, kissing me, laughing and crying.

“It wasn’t pretty,” I say, like the idiot I am.

“It was beautiful. Sometimes the most beautiful songs aren’t the complicated ones, you know?”

“That’s true.” I wrangle her hand from my cheek and slide the ring on her finger. “There. You are my bride-to-be. Officially.”

“And you are the husband-to-be. Officially.” Andrea kisses me one more time, then sits up and lets out a happy screech that brings Hugo hurtling out the front door, wearing one of Mrs. Flores’ aprons and waving a dishtowel.

“What is it? What is wrong?” Hugo demands.

“We’re getting married!” Andrea shrieks, giggling and waving her hand.

“I knew that,” Hugo says, looking confused. “So did you.”

“This is a special moment,” I explain with a warning note in my voice. “A big deal.”

“With cake?” Hugo asks, eyes childishly wide.

My poor brother has quite the sweet tooth after years of subsisting on raw or cooked meat and not much else.

“Oh, there will definitely be cake. My mother will insist on making it herself.” Andrea slowly rises, and I stand with her. This time when I reach for Chopin, the cat walks right into my grasp and lets me bring him down. “You furry little Cupid,” she praises, kissing his head.

Chopin looks up at me and purrs, paws kneading my arm contentedly.

I pull Andrea to me, and to my shock, a deep, rumbling happy laugh comes rippling out of me.

“You’re purring. Like father, like son,” Andrea teases.

“Father! Son?” Hugo flings the dishtowel into the heavens and races back into the house. “Mama Flores! Papa Flores! Andrea and Gordon are having a son!”