I leaned forward and cleared my throat. “Have you had a chance to look into that program at UCLA?”

She drew back, fiddling with her menu. “We probably shouldn’t talk about that either. Let’s find something neutral to discuss. Like, say, what movie we are going to go see after this.”

I studied her for a long moment, searching for some small clue as to what was going on inside her head, feeling that cold fear prickle up my spine again. We said nothing more to one another until after the waiter took our orders and our menus.

She fiddled with the moisture on the outside of her glass of ice water.

“What’s up?” I said.

She darted a cautious look at me before returning to focus on the glass. She shook her head. “Sorry. Don’t know where my head is.”

I studied her, knowing exactly where her head was. Still thinking about Hopkins.

The evening continued like that, in awkward fits and starts. She picked at her meal. Sometimes we got a conversation going. She told me a funny story about Mac chewing out an intern for getting too flirty with subscribers on Reddit.com. But between these stretches, we lapsed into silence. A few times I caught her giving me troubled looks and while these should have deflected me off that night’s chosen path, instead they made me all the more determined.

Because sometimes I’m a fool. A stubborn fucking fool. So along with dessert, I ordered champagne. The minute it was poured into her flute, she quickly downed its contents, signaling for a refill. Two glasses of wine at dinner and now she was sucking the champagne down like she was dying of thirst.

“What’s going on?” I blurted. “That was your third glass.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re counting?”

“I’m just wondering…you seem on edge.”

She grimaced. “So do you.”

I couldn’t deny that. I was on edge. For obvious reasons—obvious to me anyway.

She sighed and pushed her dessert dish forward, lacing her fingers and resting her folded hands on the table. “We should talk,” she started in a tight voice.

That cold, prickly fear in my chest intensified. “Yes, I agree. There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

She opened her mouth as if to continue her thought, then changed directions. “Oh. What did you need to ask me?”

I froze, for just a split second. The beads of sweat gathering on my forehead were swept away just as quickly by the hot dry breeze. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the box. One hand closed around it while I took her left hand in mine.

“I love you,” I said.

She took a shaky breath, and squeezed my hand. “I love you, too.”

“I want to give you something.” I reached out and pressed the small black velvet box into the hand I held.

She stared at it like I’d just given her a dead cockroach. Time seemed to warp and slow around us. I’d just stepped into my own TARDIS, but there was no going back. My stomach dropped. This was not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

Her hand trembled just a little but her voice shook noticeably. “You got me jewelry?”

I took a deep breath, held it. “Open it.”

In spite of the inauspicious start, I was starting to feel eager for her to open it, for her to realize what I was asking her. She fingered the box tentatively, swallowing.

“Open it, Emilia,” I prompted.

She blinked and then complied. Her mouth dropped first and she didn’t appear to be breathing.

“It’s a—” She gasped, her eyes widening in shock.

“An engagement ring, yes.”

I knew hardly anything about jewelry, but Kim had helped me pick it out. It was a low-set, square-cut two-carat diamond surrounded by bezel-set stones (so the jeweler had informed me, anyway). Emilia stared at it for a few moments, not moving or saying anything. Well, hell, I’d already committed to this endeavor and she’d get used to the idea once she saw the damn thing on her finger. While trying to calm my own racing heart, I took the box from her and pulled out the ring. I coughed and braced myself, squaring my shoulders. “I love you, Emilia. I see no reason why we shouldn’t start planning our future together now. Will you marry me?”

Her hand was like ice in mine and she had grown dangerously pale, her big eyes looking even bigger and darker in her face. Then she started to tremble. All over.

I froze. She hadn’t said anything. Was I supposed to slip the ring on her finger anyway? Or was I supposed to wait until she gave me some indication? In the movies, the man always asked the question as he was slipping the ring on the woman’s finger. So, since I was holding the ring anyway, I decided to slip it on. She’d be more inclined to say yes once she saw it twinkling on her hand.