“Will you marry me, Kate?”
My boyfriend was propped on one knee, in a Marc Jacobs suit his curls were decadent, his cheeks rosey. We had a private room at a chic restaurant by the Sydney Harbour, city lights dancing over the dark waters.
His turquoise eyes were ringing with expectation, there was only one appropriate response to this question.
“Oh shit Harry!” I swore, nearly choking on a piece of lobster.
“Katie Bear?”
No, fuck no.
“Come on,” He pleaded, giving me a classically Harry Witthouse smile; charming and confident, like he could dazzle me into a yes.
“Harry you know I hate impromptu surprises,” I stalled, wiping my mouth with the white napkin.
“After the six months we’ve had, this is a surprise?”
“Yesss,” I whined.
He shrugged, “You’re twenty five, I’m twenty seven, the firm is booming, stocks are great, Dad’s happy, my Mother likes you.”
Trust an economist to mention stocks in a proposal.
“No, no,” I held my finger up, to make my point, “Your mother tolerates me.”
“Rubbish,” he dismissed, taking both of my hands between his, “she loves you.”
I rolled my eyes, “You could have bought me a puppy,” I then sulked, “that’s a commitment.”
He smiled, there that damn thing was again.
“This is right, Kate. This feels right. Future Mrs. Witthouse, doesn’t this feel right to you?”
I slumped in my chair, “We’ve always made sense,” I admitted.
“Well then, will you marry me Miss. Blair?”
It was the seventeenth of January, the eve of my twenty fifth birthday, and this was a moment that changed my life forever.
“No," I whispered, “no, Harry, I can’t.”
YOU ARE READING
For the heart
ChickLitTo do: a. Research appropriate responses to impromptu proposals that don't break proposee's heart b. Look into witness protection c. Eat more lettuce d. Stop writing to do lists
