19
Epilogue
BY THE TIME the Perfect Moment arrived for Gabe Nelson to pop the question, his tongue felt like lead, too thick for the elaborate script he’d written in his head. So he decided to keep it simple.
“Will you marry me?”
Gabe held his breath as he got down on one knee and snapped open the robin’s-egg-blue box. Inside a flawless two-carat, emerald-cut diamond sparkled, catching the light from the crystal chandeliers dotting New York City’s famous Rainbow Room restaurant.
“I...I don’t know what to say.” Kara Humphries, Gabe’s girlfriend for the past six months, stared at the ring as if it were a two-headed hydra instead of a precious gem.
Not exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for.
He swallowed. Hard. His mind whirred through plans B, C and D. She hadn’t exactly said no. There had to be some way to persuade her to accept his proposal.
“Say yes.” Gabe took one of her perfectly manicured hands and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm for extra effect. Hell, he hadn’t served four years in the Navy JAG corps, then clawed his way to the top spot in the Manhattan DA’s Special Victims Bureau by giving up without a fight.
She pulled her hand away and tucked it under the napkin in her lap. “I’m sorry, Gabe. You’re a great guy. Really. Any woman would be lucky to have you. But...”
Ouch. Direct hit. He stood and slunk back into his seat. With sweaty hands, he palmed the ring box, snapped it shut and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He could feel his heart pounding under the cool cotton of his dress shirt. “Just not this woman, right? It’s not me, it’s you. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”
“Actually...” She looked down, her hands fiddling with her napkin. After a moment that seemed as long as the wait for his results on the bar exam, her gaze rose to meet his. “It is you. And me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He tried not to sound hurt, but it wasn’t easy. He wasn’t used to setting his mind on something and not seeing it through. As far he was concerned, this engagement wasn’t any different from negotiating a plea bargain. He and Kara belonged together.
He just had to seal the deal.
She lifted a hand to brush an imaginary lock of her always impeccable ash-blond hair from her cheek, then let it flutter back to her lap. “We both like jazz. The symphony. Sailing. Fine wine.”
“Exactly.” He raised his glass of 1998 Veuve Clicquot—the two-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne he’d specially chosen to toast their engagement—and took a sip, eyeing her over the rim with a half smile. A kernel of hope settled in his chest and he sat a little straighter. She was making his point for him. “It’s called compatibility. I fail to see the problem.”
“That is the problem.” Her voice broke and she took a deep breath. “There’s no spark between us. I adore you, Gabe, and I hope we stay friends. But I planned to tell you tonight that I think we should stop seeing each other. We’re too much alike. I need someone who’ll challenge me, broaden my horizons, introduce me to new things.”
He leaned in and studied her intently, his initial shock slowly receding. A mix of determination and curiosity took its place.
“I can introduce you to new things.” Why not? She wanted adventure, he’d give her adventure. He could be as fun and spontaneous as the next guy. If he had enough time to prepare.
“Oh, Gabe. You’re sweet. But your idea of a new thing is having red wine with fish instead of white. I’m talking about really living life. Taking chances. Not the same old boring stuff we always do.”
His jaw tightened and he locked his fingers together. “So I’m boring?”
“Not exactly. Just predictable.” She stood, placed her napkin on her plate and smoothed down her skirt. “I’m sorry, Gabe. I wanted it to work. Really, I did. But I can’t pretend anymore, trying to make myself feel something that’s not there. Someday you’ll meet the right woman. I’m just not her.”
She made her way through the restaurant, a chorus of whispers in her wake. An occupational hazard of being the daughter of a senator and one of New York’s most prominent—and wealthy—philanthropists.
He sat alone and uncomfortable, staring into his plate of shrimp scampi. What the hell had just happened? He had planned everything so perfectly. Perfect place. Perfect time. Perfect woman.
Or so he’d thought.
He was thirty years old, for Christ’s sake. He wanted a wife. Kids before he was too old to enjoy them. Of all the women he’d dated—and he was no John Mayer, but he’d gone out with his fair share—Kara was the only one he could see in his life for the long haul. A real partner in every way, beside him at rallies and fundraisers. Entertaining guests, or relaxing together at the end of a long, stressful day, reading or listening to John Coltrane on his state-of-the-art sound system. Okay, so they weren’t burning up the sheets just yet. That would come in time. Right?
But she’d said no. Said he was too predictable. Which, in his book, meant boring, no matter how she tried to sugarcoat it.
“Your check, sir.”
Gabe looked up at the waiter’s sheepish expression. He’d clearly witnessed the whole unfortunate scene.
“Here.” Gabe took the leather holder in the waiter’s outstretched hand, stuck his credit card inside without even looking at the bill and handed it back to him.
The waiter left, leaving Gabe alone. Again. He shifted in his seat and glanced around the dining room, catching the sympathetic looks of several patrons who quickly averted their eyes, like the waiter, obviously privy to his humiliation.
His very public humiliation.
Not soon enough, the waiter came back with Gabe’s credit card. With a gruff “Thanks,” Gabe scrawled his signature, downed the rest of his champagne and strode through the restaurant, slipping out into the New York night.
His apartment was only a few blocks south, but he headed in the other direction, toward Central Park. Not the best place to be at night, especially a night like this one. Ripe. Sweltering. Sure to lure out every crazy without air-conditioning. But he wasn’t ready to go home yet. He needed to breathe, to think, and nothing cleared his head like a run in the park. Tonight his suit meant he’d have to settle for a brisk walk, even if it meant he’d be covered in sweat by the time he got to his apartment downtown.
He circled the sailboat pond, trying to figure out why he felt more numb than crushed by Kara’s refusal, when a high-pitched voice from behind the boathouse froze him in his Ferragamo shoes.
“Get your fucking hands off me, or I’ll knee your balls right through the roof of your goddamned mouth.”
Gabe did a one-eighty and sprinted toward the sound.
A woman stood with her back to him, fists clenched. Her attacker lay curled at her feet, wheezing for air.
“No means no, asshole.”
The guy let out a muffled moan and she bent over him, making her short skirt ride even higher up her toned thighs. Her fishnet stockings covered her long legs, disappearing midcalf into a pair of hot-pink Doc Martens.
“Okay, okay. You made your point. You didn’t have to kick me so hard. Frigid bitch.”
Gabe stepped