Match Me If You Can

Chapter Twenty-Four

Heath reached the Wind Lake Campground a little before midnight. Only the watery glow of the Victorian streetlamps on the commons and the single porch light at the bed-and-breakfast shone through the rain-swept darkness. His wiper blades beat at the Audi's windshield. The unheated cottages sat empty and shuttered for the season. Even the caged yellow dock lights in the distance had been turned off. He'd originally planned to fly, but foul weather had closed the small airport, and he hadn't been patient enough to wait out the delay. He should have, because the storm had stretched the eight-hour trip to ten.

He'd gotten a late start leaving Chicago. Not having Annabelle's engagement ring in his pocket bothered him-he wanted to give her something tangible-so he'd driven back to Wicker Park to pick up her new car. Maybe she couldn't wear it on her finger, but at least she'd see how serious he was. Unfortunately, the Audi Roadster hadn't been built for a six-footer, and after ten hours, he had stiff legs, a cramped neck, and a killer headache he'd been feeding with black coffee. Ten Disney balloons bobbed in the backseat. He'd seen them tied together when he'd stopped for gas and impulsively bought them. For the last sixty miles, Dumbo and Cruella De Vil had been slapping the back of his head.

Through the rain-drenched windshield, he made out a row of empty rocking chairs swaying on the front porch. Even though the cottages were closed up, Kevin had told him the B &B did a decent business this time of year with tourists searching for fall foliage, and the Roadster's headlights picked out half a dozen cars parked off to the side. But Annabelle's Crown Vic wasn't one of them.

The Audi lurched in a rain-filled pothole as Heath turned into the lane that ran parallel to the dark lake. Not for the first time did it occur to him that setting off for the north woods based on information fed to a three-year-old from a woman who held a giant grudge against him might not have been his smartest move, but he'd done it anyway.

He hit the brakes as his headlights picked out what he'd spent the last ten hours praying to see: Annabelle's car, parked in front of Lilies of the Field. Relief made him light-headed. As he pulled up behind the Crown Vic, he gazed through the rain at the darkened cottage and fought the urge to wake her and set things straight. He was in no condition to negotiate his future happiness until he'd had a few hours' sleep. The B &B was closed up for the night, and he couldn't stay in town, not when Annabelle might decide to take off before he got back. Only one thing to do…

He backed the Audi around until it blocked the lane. Once he was satisfied she couldn't get out, he turned off the ignition, shoved Daffy Duck out of his way, and tilted the seat all the way back. But despite his exhaustion, he didn't immediately drift off to sleep. Too many voices from the past. Too many reminders of all the ways love had kicked him in the teeth… every damn time.

The cold awakened Annabelle even before her alarm, which she'd set for six. During the night, the temperature had dropped, and the blanket she'd pulled over herself couldn't ward off the morning chill. Molly had told her to stay in the Tuckers' private quarters at the B &B instead of an unheated cottage, but Annabelle had wanted the solitude of Lilies of the Field. Now she regretted it.

The hot water had been turned off last week, and she splashed cold on her face. After she helped serve breakfast to the guests, she'd treat herself to a long soak in Molly's tub. Yesterday, she'd volunteered to help with breakfast when the girl who usually worked the morning shift had fallen ill. A small but welcome distraction.

She gazed at the hollow-eyed face in the mirror. Pitiful. But every tear she shed here at the campground was a tear she wouldn't have to shed when she got back to the city. This was her time to mourn. She didn't intend to make a career out of being miserable, but she wouldn't beat herself up for hiding out, either. She'd fallen in love with a man who was incapable of loving her back. If a woman couldn't cry about that, she didn't have a heart.

Turning away, she snagged her hair into a ponytail, then slipped into jeans and sneakers, along with the warm sweater she'd borrowed from Molly's closet. She let herself out through the back door. The storm had finally blown off, and her breath made frosty clouds in the cold, clean air as she walked down the path to the lake. The soggy carpet of leaves sucked at her sneakers, and the trees dripped on her head, but seeing the lake in the early morning lifted her spirits, and she didn't care if she got wet.

Coming up here had been a good decision. Heath was a powerful salesman, and he saw every obstacle as a challenge. He'd be gunning for her when she got back, trying to convince her she should be satisfied with the place he wanted to relegate her to in his life-behind his clients and his meetings, his phone calls and his grueling ambition. She couldn't return until she had all her defenses firmly in place.

Fingers of mist rose from the water, and a pair of snow-white egrets fed near the bank. Through the weight of her sadness, she struggled to find a few moments of peace. Five months ago, she might have settled for Heath's emotional leftovers, but not now. Now, she knew she deserved better. For the first time in her life, she had a clear vision of who she was and what she wanted from her life. She was proud of everything she'd accomplished with Perfect for You, proud of building something good. But she was even more proud of herself for refusing to accept second best from Heath. She deserved to love openly and joyously-no holds barred-and to be loved the same way in return. With Heath, that wouldn't be possible. As she turned away from the lake, she knew she'd done the right thing. For now, that was her only comfort.

When she reached the B &B, she pitched in to help. As the guests began filling the dining room, she poured coffee, fetched baskets of warm muffins, replenished the serving dishes on the sideboard, and even managed to crack a joke. By nine o'clock, the dining room had emptied out, and she set off back toward the cottage. Before she took her bath, she'd make her business calls. A master executive had taught her the value of personal contact, and she had clients who depended on her.

Ironic how much she'd learned from Heath, including the importance of following her own vision instead of someone else's. Perfect for You would never make her rich, but bringing people together was what she'd been born to do. All kinds of people. Not just the beautiful and accomplished, but the awkward and insecure, the hapless and obtuse. And not only the young. Unprofitable or not, she could never abandon her seniors. Being a matchmaker was messy, unpredictable, and demanding, but she loved it.

She reached the deserted beach and paused for a moment.

Pulling her sweater closer, she walked out onto the dock. The lake was quiet without its summer visitors, and the memories of the night she and Heath had danced in the sand washed over her. She sat down at the end and drew her knees to her chest. Twice she'd fallen for damaged men. But not ever again.

Footsteps sounded on the dock behind her. One of the guests. She pressed her wet cheek to her knee, blotting her tears.

"Hello, sweetheart."

Her head came up, and her heart lurched. He'd found her. She should have known.

"I used your toothbrush," he said from behind her. "I was going to use your razor until I figured out there wasn't any hot water." His voice sounded rusty, as if he hadn't spoken for a while.

Slowly she turned. Her eyes widened in shock. He was mismatched, unkempt, and unshaven. Beneath a ratty red wind-breaker, he wore a faded orange T-shirt and navy slacks that looked as though he'd slept in them. He held a bunch of Disney balloons in his hand. Goofy had deflated and hung against his leg, but he didn't seem to notice. Between the balloons and his dishevelment, he should have looked ridiculous. But with the polished veneer he'd worked so hard to obtain stripped away, she felt even more threatened.

"You shouldn't have come here," she heard herself say. "This is a waste of time."

He cocked his head and gave her his huckster's smile. "Hey, this is supposed to be like in Jerry Maguire. Remember? 'You had me at hello.'"

"Skinny women are pushovers."

His phony charm evaporated like the helium in the Goofy balloon. He shrugged, took a step closer. "My real name's Harley. Harley D. Campione. Take a guess what the D stands for?"

He'd mow her down if she didn't keep swinging. "Dumb ass?"

"It stands for Davidson. Harley Davidson Campione. How do you like that? My old man loved a good joke, as long as it wasn't on him."

She wouldn't let him play on her sympathies. "Go away, Harley. We've both said everything we needed to."

He stuffed his free hand in the pocket of his windbreaker. "I used to fall in love with his girlfriends. He was a good-looking guy, and he knew how to turn on the charm when he felt like it, so there was a whole slew of them. Every time he brought a new one home, I let myself believe she'd be the one who'd stick, that finally he'd settle down and act like a father. There was this one woman… Carol. She made noodles from scratch. Rolled the dough out with a pop bottle and let me cut it into these little strips. Best thing I ever tasted in my life. Another-her name was Erin-she'd drive me wherever I wanted to go. She forged his name on a permission slip so I could play Pop Warner football. When she left, I lost my ride, and I had to walk four miles to practice if nobody picked me up on the highway. That turned out to be a good thing, though. I ended up with a lot more endurance than the other guys. I wasn't the strongest, and I wasn't the fastest, but I never gave up, and that was a powerful life lesson."

"Sometimes knowing when to give up is the real test of character."

She might as well not have spoken. "Joyce, she taught me how to smoke and a few other things she shouldn't have, but she had some problems, and I try not to hold it against her."

"It's too late for this."

"The thing is…" He looked at the dock, not at her, and studied the boards at his feet. "Sooner or later, every one of those women I loved left. I don't know. Maybe I wouldn't be where I am today if one of them had stuck." As he gazed back up at her, his old belligerence returned. "I learned early on that nobody was going to hand me anything. It made me tough."

But no tougher than she was. She steeled herself and rose to her feet. "You deserved a better childhood, but I can't change what happened. Those years shaped who you are. I can't fix that. And I can't fix you."

"I don't need to be fixed anymore. That job's already been done. I love you, Annabelle."

The pain was nearly more than she could bear. He was only saying what he knew she wanted to hear, and she didn't believe him, not for a second. His words were carefully calculated, chosen for the sole purpose of closing a deal. "No, you really don't," she managed. "You just hate not getting your way."

"It's not that."

"Winning is everything to you. The joy of the kill is your life's blood."

"Not when it comes to you."

"Don't do this! It's cruel. You know who you are." Her eyes filled with tears. "But I know who I am, too. I'm a woman who won't settle for second place. I want the best," she said softly. "And you're not it."

He looked as though she'd slapped him. Despite her own pain, she hadn't wanted to hurt him, but one of them needed to speak the truth. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I won't spend my life waiting around for your leftovers. This time persistence isn't going to get the job done."

He didn't try to stop her as she left the dock. When she reached the sand, she crisscrossed her sweater over her chest and hurried toward the woods, ordering herself not to look back. But as she stepped onto the path, she couldn't help herself.

The dock stood empty. Everything still. The only movement came from a bunch of balloons drifting off into the bleak October sky.

It didn't take her long to pack. A tear dripped on her hand as she zipped the suitcase. She was so sick of crying. She picked up the bag and made her way numbly out the front door. With each step she took, she reminded herself that she'd never give up who she was for anyone. She came to a dead stop. Especially not for a man who'd blocked in her car with a sporty silver Audi…

He'd done a good job of it. A giant oak kept her from moving forward, and the Audi prevented her from going in reverse. The temporary Illinois tags left no doubt whose work this was. She couldn't bear another encounter with him, and she dragged her suitcase back inside the cottage, but she'd barely set it down before she heard tires on gravel. She went to the window, but it wasn't Heath. Instead, she glimpsed a dark blue sports car coming to a stop behind the Audi. The woods extended just far enough to block her view of whichever guest had decided to explore the campground.

It was all too much. She sank down on the couch and buried her face in her hands. Why did he have to make everything harder?

Light footsteps tapped on the porch, too light to be Heath's. She heard a knock. Dragging her feet, she rose, crossed the room, opened the door… and screamed. To her credit, it wasn't a horror movie scream, more of a yelpy kind of gaspy thing.

"I know," a familiar voice said. "I've had better days."

Annabelle took an involuntary step backward. "You're blue."

"A cosmetic procedure. It's beginning to peel. May I come in?"

Annabelle moved aside. Even without her blue face, which had begun to crack like a cheap alligator purse, Portia hardly looked her best. Her inky hair lay flat against her head, clean but not styled. Her white sweater had a fresh coffee stain on the front. She'd gained weight, and her jeans were a size too tight.

Portia took in the cottage. "Have you talked to Heath?"

"What are you doing here?"

Portia walked toward the kitchen and poked her head in and out. "Claiming my last introduction. You chose Delaney Lightfield. I choose you. Welcome to Power Matches. Let's see if we can find you some makeup? And a decent outfit wouldn't hurt, either."

"You're nuts."

She gave Annabelle a surprisingly cheerful smile. "Yes, but not as nutty as I used to be. It's interesting. Once you've terrified a restaurant full of people-a Burger King near Benton Harbor-you're basically liberated from ever again worrying about keeping up appearances."

"You went into a Burger King looking like this?"

"Potty stop. Plus Bodie dared me."

"Bodie?"

She smiled, her blue lips making her very nice teeth look a little yellow. "We're lovers. More than lovers. In love. Bizarre, I know, but I've never been happier. We're getting married. Well, he hasn't agreed yet, but he will." She studied Annabelle more closely and frowned. "From those red eyes, I can see you talked with Heath and that it didn't go well."

"It went very well. I told him no and walked away."

Portia threw up her hands. "Why am I not surprised? Well, as of now, playtime is over. You amateurs have had your fun, but it's time to step aside and let a professional handle this."

"You have clearly lost your mind, not to mention your looks."

Surprisingly, Portia didn't take offense. "My looks will be back in spades. Wait till you see what's underneath all this."

"I'll have to take your word for it."

"I told Heath not to talk to you without me, but he's pigheaded. And you… Of all people, you should have known to be more sensitive. Haven't you learned anything about this business? Two different men have ordered me not to call you a twit, but, honestly, Annabelle, if the shoe fits…"

She marched to the door. "Thanks for stopping by. Sorry you have to leave so soon."

Portia sat on the arm of the couch. "Do you have any idea how much courage it took for him to accept the fact that he's fallen in love with you, let alone to come here and lay his heart on the line? And what did you do? Tossed his feelings right back in his face, didn't you? Extremely unwise, Annabelle, especially with Heath. He's very emotionally insecure. From what Bodie's told me, I suspect that's exactly what his subconscious expected you to do, and I don't think he'll have the guts to ask you again."

"Insecure? He's the cockiest man in the universe." But Portia had shaken her confidence, and the floor no longer felt quite so steady. "He doesn't love me," Annabelle said more forcefully. "He just can't stand hearing anybody say no to him."

"You're so wrong." A voice spoke from behind her. She whipped around to see Bodie framed in the door. Unlike Portia, he was pulled together from head to toe in a gray sweater, great fitting jeans, and motorcycle boots.

Annabelle went on the attack. "Did Heath send you to talk to me? It would be just like him to delegate another one of those messy personal tasks he dislikes so much."

"She's a bit of a bitch," Portia said to Bodie, as if Annabelle weren't in the room.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Babe."

Portia held out her hand. "I know, I know… If she were a man, she'd be labeled aggressive. But honestly, Bodie, sometimes a bitch is just a bitch."

"Exactly."

Portia seemed amused. "Point taken."

He chuckled, and Annabelle began to feel like a tagalong at her own crisis. Bodie finally managed to drag his eyes away from Blue Girl. "Heath doesn't know either one of us is here. I only found out where he'd gone through an accidental telephone conversation I had with Kevin's kid." He slipped his arm around Portia's shoulders. "The thing is, Annabelle… What if Portia's right? And, let's face it, she has more experience with this kind of crap than you do. Just because she has a history of screwing up her own life-which I'm happy to say she's working through-doesn't mean she hasn't made a success out of other peoples' lives. Bottom line-there's a fairly simple way to settle this."

Fighting both of them had exhausted her already diminished resources, and Annabelle slumped into the sofa. "Nothing's simple when it comes to that man."

"This time it is," he said. "I caught a glimpse of him heading for that path that goes around the lake."

The same path she'd planned to walk this afternoon.

"Go after him," Bodie said, "and when you find him, ask him two questions. When you hear his answers, you'll know exactly what to do."

"Two questions?"

"That's right. And I'm going to tell you exactly what they are…"

Water from the soggy leaves seeped into Annabelle's sneakers, and her teeth had begun to chatter, more from nerves, she suspected, than the chill. She might be making the worst mistake of her life. She couldn't see anything special about the questions Bodie had posed, but he'd been adamant. As for Portia… The woman was scary. Annabelle wouldn't have been surprised to see her pull a handgun from her purse. Portia and Bodie were the weirdest couple she'd ever seen, and yet they seemed to understand each other perfectly. Apparently, Annabelle had a lot more to learn about being a matchmaker. She had to admit Portia was growing on her. How could you hate a woman who was so willing to put herself on the line?

The path grew steeper as it climbed toward the rocky bluff that jutted over the water. Molly said she and Kevin came here sometimes to dive. Annabelle paused as she rounded the bend to catch her breath. That was when she saw Heath. He stood on the rocky ledge gazing out at the lake, his jacket pushed back, his fingertips stuffed in his back pockets. Even unkempt and disheveled, he was magnificent, an alpha male at the top of every game he played, except the most important one.

He heard her footsteps and turned his head. Slowly, his hands dropped to his sides. In the distance, she saw a tiny speck in the sky. The balloons drifting away. It didn't seem like a comforting omen. "I need to ask you two questions," she said.

His stance, his shuttered expression, everything about him reminded her of the way the cottages had been closed up for the winter-no hot water, curtains drawn, doors locked. "All right," he said tonelessly.

Her heart hammered as she stepped around the no diving sign. "First question. Where's your cell?"

"My cell? Why do you care?"

She wasn't sure. What difference could it make which pocket he'd stashed it in? Still, Bodie had insisted she ask.

"Last time I saw it," Heath said, "Pip had it."

"You let her steal another phone?"

"No, I gave it to her."

She swallowed and stared at him. This was getting serious. "You gave her your cell? Why?"

"Is this the second question?"

"No. Scratch that. The second question is… Why haven't you returned Dean's calls?"

"I returned one of them, but he didn't know where you were."

"So why did he call you in the first place?"

"What is this, Annabelle? Frankly, I'm getting tired of everybody acting like the world revolves around Dean Robillard. Just because he's developed this sudden need for an agent doesn't mean I have to jump to attention. I'll get to him when I get to him, and if that's not good enough, he has IMG's phone number."

Her legs gave out from under her, and she sank down on the nearest rock. "Oh, my God. You really do love me."

"I already told you that," he retorted.

"You did, didn't you?" She couldn't get her breath back.

Finally, he grew aware that something had changed. "Annabelle?"

She tried to answer, really she did, but he'd once again turned her world upside down, and her tongue wouldn't cooperate.

Hope battled against the wariness in his eyes. His lips barely moved. "You believe me?"

"Uh-huh." Her hammering heart created a ripple effect, and she had to clasp her hands to keep them from shaking.

"You do?"

She nodded.

"You're going to marry me?"

She nodded again, and that was all he needed. With a low moan, he pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Seconds… hours… she had no idea how long the kiss lasted, but he covered a lot of territory: lips, tongue, and teeth; her cheeks and eyelids; her neck. His hands reached under her sweater for her breasts; she fumbled beneath his jacket to touch his bare chest.

She barely remembered how they made it back to the empty cottage, only that her heart was singing and she couldn't move fast enough to keep up with him. Finally, he swept her into his arms and carried her. She threw back her head and laughed at the sky.

They undressed, their urgency making them awkward as they kicked away muddy shoes and wet jeans, hopped awkwardly to shake off clammy socks, bumped into furniture, into each other. She was shivering with cold by the time he pulled back the covers and drew her with him into the chilly bed. He offered the heat of his body to make the goose bumps disappear, rubbed her arms and the small of her back, suckled the warmth back into her puckered nipples. Eventually, his fevered fingers found the tight folds between her legs and opened them into summer-warmed petals plump with welcoming dew. He claimed every inch of her body with his touch. She gasped as he entered her.

"I love you so much, my sweet, sweet Annabelle," he whispered, everything he felt in his heart spilling into his words.

She laughed with the joy of his invasion and gazed into his eyes. "And I love you."

He groaned, kissed her again, and tilted her hips to take all of him. They abandoned themselves, not in beautifully choreographed lovemaking, but in a messy mating of spunk and juice, of sweet filth, luscious obscenities, of deep and total trust, as pure and sacred as altar vows.

Long afterward, with only cold water to wash themselves, they cursed and laughed and splashed each other, which led them back to bed. They made love for the rest of the afternoon.

As evening fell, a loud knock at the door intruded, followed by Portia's voice. "Room service!"

Heath took his time but eventually wrapped a towel around his hips and went to investigate. He returned with a brown paper grocery bag filled with food. Ravenous, they fed themselves and each other, gorging on roast beef sandwiches, juicy Michigan apples, and a gluey pumpkin pie that tasted like heaven. They washed it all down with lukewarm beer and then, groggy and sated, dozed in each other's arms.

It was dark when Annabelle awakened. Wrapping herself in a quilt, she went into the living room and retrieved her phone. Within seconds, she'd reached Dean's voice mail.

"I know Heath went a little nuts on you, pal, and I apologize for him. The man's in love, so he can't help himself." She smiled. "I promise he'll call first thing tomorrow and set everything straight, so don't you dare talk to IMG before then. I mean it, Dean, if you sign with anybody but Heath, I will never speak to you again. Plus, I'll tell everybody in Chicago that you sleep with a giant poster of yourself right next to your bed. Which you probably do."

She grinned, hung up, and retrieved a tattered pad of yellow lined paper from the drawer, along with a gnawed pencil stub. When she got back to the bedroom, she turned on a lamp and propped herself against the footboard with the quilt wrapped tightly around her. Her feet were freezing, so she slid them under the covers and up against Heath's warm thigh.

He yelped and heaved himself into the pillows. "You will definitely pay for that."

"Here's hoping." She propped the notepad on her quilt-draped knee and drank in the sight of him. He looked like a wicked pirate against the snowy pillowcases. Tan skin, disheveled dark hair, and the marauder's stubble that had chafed various sensitive parts of her body. "Okay, lover, it's time to deal."

He pushed himself higher onto the pillows and gazed at the notepad. "Do we really have to?"

"Are you nuts? You think I'm marrying the Python without an ironclad prenup?"

He fumbled under the covers for her cold foot. "Apparently not."

"First…" As he chafed the warmth back into her toes, she wrote on the pad. "There will be no cell phones, BlackBerries, minifaxes, or other as-yet-to-be-invented electronic devices at our dinner table ever."

He rubbed her toes. "What about if we're eating in a restaurant?"

"Especially if we're eating in a restaurant."

"Exempt fast food, and you've got a deal."

She thought it over. "Agreed."

"Now it's my turn." He draped her calf on top of his thigh.

"Selected electronic devices, excluding the aforementioned, will not only be allowed in the bedroom, but will be encouraged. And I get to choose what they are."

"If you don't forget about that catalog…"

He gestured toward the notepad. "Write it down."

"Fine." She wrote it down.

The blanket fell to the middle of his chest, momentarily distracting her as he spoke again. "Disagreements over money are the biggest cause of divorce."

She waved her hand. "Absolutely no problem. Your money is our money. My money is my money." She wrote away.

"I should make you negotiate with Phoebe."

She gestured toward his very fine chest with her pencil. "On the off chance I find out after we're married that your declaration of abiding love and devotion has been an elaborate con job perpetrated by you, Bodie, and Scary Spice…"

He massaged her arch. "I definitely wouldn't lose too much sleep over that."

"Just in case. You will give me all your worldly goods, shave your head, and leave the country."

"Deal."

"Plus, you have to hand over your Sox tickets so I can burn them in front of your eyes."

"Only if I get something in exchange."

"What?"

"Unlimited sex. How I want it, when I want it, where I want it. The backseat of your shiny new car, on top of my desk…"

"Definite deal."

"And kids."

Just like that, she choked up. "Yes. Oh, yes."

Her show of emotion left him unmoved as his eyes narrowed and he dived in for the kill. "We take at least six trips a year to see your family."

She slammed down the notepad. "That is so not going to happen."

"Five trips, and I'll beat up your brothers."

"One."

He dropped her foot. "Damn it, Annabelle, I'll compromise at four trips until the baby's born, then we see them every other month, and that's not negotiable." He grabbed the notepad and pencil and began to write.

"Fine," she retorted. "I'll go to a spa while all of you sit around and complain about the limitations of the sixty-hour workweek."

He laughed. "You are so full of it. You know you can't wait to dangle our firstborn in front of Candace's nose."

"Well, there's that." She paused, took back the notepad, but she couldn't see a word she'd written. As much as she hated letting reality intrude, it was time to get serious. "Heath, how do you plan to be a father to these children we want while you're working that sixty-hour week?" She spoke carefully, wanting to get this right. "With Perfect for You, my hours are flexible, but… I know how much you love what you do, and I'd never want you to give it up. On the other hand, I won't raise a family by myself."

"You won't have to," he said smugly. "I have a plan."

"Care to share?"

He reached for her arm, pulled her down next to him, and told her what he had in mind.

"I like your plan." She grinned and curled into his chest. "Bodie deserves to be a full partner."

"I couldn't agree more."

They were both so pleased they started kissing again, which led to a lovely-and very successful-testing of her powers as a dominatrix. As a result, it took a while to get back to their negotiations. They covered sleepwear (none), TV remote control (shared), children's names (no motor vehicles), and baseball (irreconcilable differences). When they finished, Heath remembered there was one question he'd forgotten to ask.

Gazing into her eyes, he drew her fingers to his lips. "I love you, Annabelle Granger. Will you marry me?"

"Harley Davidson Campione, you have got yourself a wife."

"The best deal I've ever made," he replied with a smile.