By Enola Jones

Bess gaped at Chris. “…you want… me to… to what?”

“You heard me.” Chris leaned back in his chair.

“Are—are—“ She had to stop and clear her throat, running a manicured hand over a suddenly aching forehead in a gesture clearly held over from Ezra. “Chris, are you certain?”

He nodded. “Dead certain. I didn’t ask this lightly or idly.”

“But… the other… our work… you could be fired… or I’d be transferred…”

“We can do this, Bess.”

“Well… yes, I mean… we would have to be even more discreet than we already are… nothing would truly change…. But we would know what we’ve done… it can only draw us closer…”

Chris nodded and waved a hand impatiently. “Well?”

Bess blinked. “Well?”

“You never gave me an answer.”

“I didn’t?” At his smile and fond headshake, she chuckled. “Oh! Well!” She leaned forward and took his hand—but just smiled.


“Well, it certainly seems like the most prudent course of—“


She laughed. “Yes, Chris! Yes, I shall marry you!”


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