Russell met me at the corner table of the bistro on Tenth Street, where the tablecloths were heavy white linen and the waiters did not rush the guests. He took off his grey wool coat and folded it over the back of the chair with slow, deliberate grace.
A small velvet box sat between the salt cellar and the bread basket.
“This is too fast, Russell,” I said.
He adjusted his silver cuffs, his eyes holding mine with a steady, quiet warmth.
“I am not asking for your heart, Elena, only for the privilege of keeping you safe.”
He slid the box across the white cloth, his fingers leaving a faint mark in the fabric. Inside, a single diamond set in platinum caught the low yellow light of the chandelier.
My hand stayed in my lap, my fingers tracing the worn edge of my purse where the strap had begun to fray.
