Let It Be Me, Becky Wade [beautiful books to read .TXT] 📗

S. Lewis quote,” Sebastian said.

“Well done, Sebastian!”

How long was he going to be stuck holding the appetizer tray like a waiter?

“I’m just glad that you kept Polka Dot Apron Pies open here in Misty River,” Ben said. Penelope had converted a 1950s camper trailer into a food truck. For years she’d sold pie from her spot near Misty River’s downtown square. “I’m a huge fan of your apple pie.”

“Thank you! Does it taste the same as it always did now that Kevin’s managing the pie truck for me?”

“It does.”

Penelope looked pleased. “Kevin’s fastidious about following my recipes.”

“Are you still baking pies in Germany?” Natasha asked.

“I don’t have a storefront. But people on the base place orders with me, and I bake out of our kitchen. I’ve also been working on a cookbook.”

“I’ll buy the cookbook the moment it comes out,” Natasha vowed.

“She’s an incredible baker,” said Eli, who apparently couldn’t compliment his wife enough in public.

“Here’s to those of us who have significant others who know their way around food.” Genevieve lifted a meatball as if it were a champagne glass.

Sebastian couldn’t have cared less whether Leah knew her way around food. He could pay to have food delivered.

Sam called them over. Genevieve lifted the tray from him, and they found their place cards and took their seats.

Light gray clouds drifted lazily through a dark purple sky. Candles, pumpkins, and berries decorated the center of the table. The conversation flowed. Laughter expanded into the night.

Genevieve sat next to Sam, her hand draped over his elbow, her eyes sparkling at something he’d said. Sebastian had been concerned when Genevieve had turned her life upside-down like a bucket of golf balls and moved from her home in Nashville to Sam’s farm. In an effort to win back her mental and physical health, she’d stepped away from writing contracts, speaking engagements, and social media for the last ten months. She’d slowed the pace of her life.

It turned out that his concern had been misplaced. Genevieve had never looked better, never seemed more at peace than she did now.

As glad as he was for her, this dinner was giving Sebastian the same unsettling sense he’d experienced many times before when surrounded by cheerful people . . . the sense that he was an island, and the rest of them were an ocean, flowing around him. He was close to them, but he was separate, not a part of them in the same way that they were a part of one another.

After the main course wound down, Sam rose to his feet. He clinked his butter knife against his glass until the voices quieted. In the semi-darkness, his pale eyes looked even paler than usual next to his olive skin and brown hair. “Before we serve dessert, I’d like to say a few words.” His Australian accent carried on the air.

“Ooh.” Genevieve’s overly emotional mom rested a hand on her chest. “That would be lovely.”

“Before I met Gen, I’d been living alone on this farm for four years,” Sam said. “I told myself that’s how I wanted it, but to be honest, I was miserable. And then thirteen months ago, Gen showed up. Even as I was giving her permission to move into the guesthouse, I was regretting my words.”

Genevieve laughed. “And then, after I moved in, I gave you a lot more reasons to regret them.”

“A lot more.” Sam regarded Genevieve with softness.

“I bring drama,” Genevieve stated.

“And worry.”

“And chaos.”

“You added difficulty to my days at first,” he acknowledged. “But then you began to add other things. Color and laughter and hope.”

Sebastian shifted uncomfortably. This conversation felt like it should be private, between Genevieve and Sam. But it looked like his opinion fell in the minority. Everyone else sat forward in their chairs, fascinated.

“With you,” Sam continued, “God gave me a second chance that I still don’t feel like I deserve. But I value it more than anything, because I know how much it’s worth. You’ve become my favorite person. My best friend. I want to pull your long hairs off my sweaters and make you coffee and tease you about your terrible taste in music—”

“My excellent taste in music, you mean.”

Sam sobered. “I want an opportunity—a million opportunities—to make you smile. The best I can hope for the days I have left is to spend them all with you. I don’t want to be apart from you for a single one of them.”

Genevieve’s face communicated amazement. Moisture gathered on her lashes.

“I’ve got this farmhouse, this property, a restaurant, some savings, a tractor, and a beat-up truck,” Sam said. “Everything I have is yours. My loyalty, my support, my commitment, my heart. Me. Always.”

“Sam.”

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

Sam reached into his pocket. Excited murmurs raced between the guests as Sam lowered to one knee beside Genevieve. He pulled out a small jewelry box and opened it to reveal a diamond ring.

Genevieve appeared to have been struck by lockjaw.

Sam hesitated. “You okay?”

“No. Sam! Yes . . . I’m okay.” She gestured for him to go on. “Please continue with whatever you were about to say.” Tears slipped down her face toward her grin.

“Sure?” he asked.

“Please continue!”

“Because if another time would be better—”

“Another time would not be better!”

“All right, then.” Sam looked into her face. “Genevieve Mae Woodward?”

“Present.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she answered.

Sam slipped the ring onto her finger. They stood. Kissed. Then Sam wrapped her in his arms.

The rest of them pushed to their feet in a mass, everyone clapping, some whistling or whooping. The guys exchanged high fives. The women hugged. Genevieve’s mother wept with joy, and Genevieve’s dad tried to find a pack of tissues for his wife. Natasha snapped pictures.

Sam whispered something to Genevieve. She whispered something back, admiring her ring. He pressed a kiss against the crown of her head and pulled her against him.

The guests crowded around the newly engaged couple to congratulate them.

From the first time that Sebastian had met Sam, Sebastian had seen how perfect he was for Genevieve. She