“I can’t believe . . . how lucky . . . I am . . .” I panted once more, getting into my rhythm.
“Wrong.” He sat up underneath me, driving deeper into my body. “I’m the lucky one.” I gasped, he groaned, and my hips went wild.
“I can’t believe . . . you’re going to be . . . Simon . . . Reynolds . . .”
Yeah, I got rolled over for that one.
I made my fiancé scrambled eggs for breakfast. Can you believe that? Not the scrambled eggs part, although they were pretty unbelievable. Old Barefoot Contessa trick. Beat the eggs with a few tablespoons of cream, then gently pour into a buttered pan, stirring lightly over low heat. Perfect eggs, every time. À la Ina. À la sparkly ring. À la 2.5 carat cushion cut on a platinum band. I couldn’t stop looking at it. I added some kosher salt to the eggs. I marveled at my ring in front of the salt box, noting how nice it looked next to the Morton’s girl. I added a twist or two of freshly ground cracked pepper. I gazed at how my ring caught the light and made tiny rainbows on the countertop.
I opened every single cabinet and every single drawer in that kitchen, just to see how my ring looked against each panel. This was normal behavior, I mean, right?
“I can’t stop looking at my ring,” I confided to Simon as I set a plate in front of him along with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The juice was freshly squeezed because I wanted to see how my ring looked while my hands were . . . turning on the juicer.
“I can’t stop looking at it either,” he admitted, pulling me onto his lap for a hug.
“That’s sweet, babe.”
“Of course, I’m usually looking at your tits, so this ring stuff is kind of cutting into that time.”
“That’s weird, babe.”
“Have you told anyone yet?”
“Hasn’t really been time. I’ve been too busy fucking my fiancé since it happened.”
“That’s literally the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Really? How about the time I told you to lick my sweet—”
The great thing about scrambled eggs is they’re so easy to make again when the first batch gets too cold to eat.
Moments later, as we lay on the kitchen table, we heard the sound of a plate crashing to the floor.
“You owe me for that plate,” I said.
“You owe me for that orgasm.”
There was another crash. “Oops. Sorry about that,” I said, not at all sorry.
“When I broke your plate it was accidental, in a fit of passion. Pushing plates off the table on purpose isn’t going to get you anywhere, Caroline.”
“I doubt that, Simon. Look how fantastic this ring looks on my hand while it’s holding your cock.”
“Jesus Christ, woman.”
Moments later . . .
“I heard you on the phone with Jillian earlier. You really didn’t tell her?”
“No, I told her I was taking a personal day but I didn’t say why.”
“Why are you taking a personal day?”
“To fuck your brains out underneath our kitchen table.”
“I see.”
“You have a problem with this?”
“It’s the best use of a personal day I can think of.”
“Agreed. Now, let’s get to it.”
“Are you going to be this bossy when we’re married?”
“You have no idea, Simon. You have no idea.”
Hours later . . .
“I’m seriously hungry.”
“Me too. Can you control yourself?”
“Me? You’re the one that was pushing plates off the table on purpose.”
“Don’t start that again. Let’s grab something on the way to the hospital.”
“Are you having a heart attack? I know that last round was pretty intense. Thanks for being so bendy, by the way.”
“You’re welcome, and no on the heart attack business. I told Sophia I’d stop by today, see how she and the little one are doing.”
“So we have to put on clothes now, I suppose.”
“If you want to make it past security, it’s a safe bet. Come on, I want to call my mom and tell her the good news.”
“What about your dad?”
“You get to call him, and explain why you didn’t talk to him first before asking me to be your lawfully wedded wifey.”
“Shit. I mean, yay.”
Simon and I called my parents, who were ecstatic. My mom immediately shifted into wedding mode, asking me all kinds of questions about when and where and had I thought about colors and did I want my cousin Bernice to be a bridesmaid and made me tell her every detail about when he asked me to marry him. I left out the detail about us being naked at the time; that part was for me and me alone. I knew girls who’d been asked in a horse-drawn carriage, on the beach, at the top of the Eiffel Tower, even on the BART. But no one I knew had a naked engagement moment. Oh sure, afterward I assumed most were naked. But during the actual moment? I wanted to keep that to myself.
We got dressed, finally, piled into the car, and headed back into the city after stopping for cheeseburgers and milkshakes. Did I show my ring to every person working the drive-thru that day? You bet your sweet bippy I did. Here’s me and my ring biting into a burger; here’s me and my ring drinking a milkshake. I even had Simon re-create the moment by sliding an onion ring down my finger. For someone who’d originally questioned the entire idea of getting married and whether it was necessary, I was sure turned around by a sparkly something.