Page 127 of Proposal Play
Asher sets down his fork too, his eyes never leaving mine. They’re intense. Steady. “Maeve, I’m not that guy. And you’re not that woman. You’re not too much. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
I swallow hard. “You’re only saying that because it’s easier.”
He leans in, his gaze steady, serious. “No, I’m not. Listen to me. Hear me when I say this—I’ve known youfor ten years. I’m not kicking you out, and you won’t scare me away.”
His words make my heart swell, but there’s still a part of me that needs help believing it. And maybe…this is the place to ask for it. “Just…tell me—will you let me know if I’m asking for too much? Or if you need space? Will you tell me how much is too much?”
Asher’s lips are a ruler. His eyes lock with mine. He nods solemnly. “I promise,” he says, taking my request as seriously as I mean it.
“Thank you,” I say, and it’s a relief to be understood. To be accepted.
“But you won’t be too much.”
“You can’t know that,” I say.
“I can,” he says, then reaches for my hand. “But I also hearyou. So if you want to figure this out for yourself, if you want to know what’s too much, or too little, or just right, I’ll tell you.”
“Good. I want to know what you like.” I pause, hesitating on the words, or really making sure I have the right ones. The one that was hard to say moments ago. It’s not so much now. “In a relationship.”
“I can do that,” he says easily.
“Thank you.” I draw a deep breath, feeling more settled, assured. It’s the Asher effect. I’m so lucky to have someone in my life like him—someone who takes me as I am. My girlfriends do that, of course. But so does this man, and that matters to me. Which means now’s as good a time as any for the gift I made him. “I have something for you,” I say.
“You want to get naked right now?”
“Oh, I got the message loud and clear from your apron what you want. But first, this,” I say, then hustle over to myduffel bag, where I grab a little something I made for him the other night. It’s another mirror—this one with a small rectangular gilded frame with dragon scales painted on it. In the corner is a tiny painting of one of my pop art couples, kissing of course. I pause though, the frame in hand, as a pit forms in my stomach briefly, coated in the worry that he won’t want what I have to give. But I push past that uncomfortable feeling and bring the gift back to the table.
“I snuck into the tiny studio for a couple hours this week to make this. I get a little…batty if I don’t make my decorative art too. And I had this idea,” I explain, then hand the mirror to him.
His eyes gleam as he takes the gift, tracing a finger over the words I painted on.It’s the little surprises, like dragon underwear, that keep the spark alive. I watch as his fingertip follows the lines, then he looks up, locking his gaze with mine. There’s something new in his expression—something that perhaps says I’m a mystery he’s eager to solve.
“Advice from Jen and Hal. That night in Vegas,” he says, and a small gasp escapes my lips. I wanted him to remember, and I’m glad he did.
“Good memory,” I murmur.
“I remember a lot of things. Seems like you do too. And I’m sensing a theme behind these mirrors.”
“What’s the theme?”
He taps the frame, giving it some thought. “Advice on the proper care and handling of an artist. That’s what this is, right?”
“Maybe it’s a roadmap to me, but I think the general lessons apply too. People keep wanting to give us tips, so I thought I’d put it down.”
“Is this your way of telling me I should wear dragon underwear next time?” he teases.
I nibble on the corner of my lip, a little nervous. “Maybe it is. So, tell me—was this too presumptuous? The gift?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Not at all. In fact, I’m going to hang it up tonight.”
That’s a relief, but still, I’m compelled to add, “You don’t have to. I’m not trying to, I don’t know, redecorate your home.”
His gaze is unflinching as he says, “You could though. If you wanted to.”
I furrow my brow. What do I make of that comment? But then it hits me, like a ten-pound bag of obvious. This is fake. Like I told my friends earlier. Just because I might feel some new emotions doesn’t change the score. And I shouldn’t try to read anything more into his comments. “Right. For the photo spread.” Of course that’ll help. If this place looks even more like I live here, it’ll be good for this marriage of convenience—for my work and for his charity rollout.
Briefly, frustration seems to flicker on his face.
“No. Just for you. You’re living here now. And you don’t have to go to the studio you rent to make your mirrors. You can do it in the guest room. You already have your easel and paints in there. Do you want to paint in there? Make your decorative art in there?”