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You’ll be angry, but I’m going to ask anyway. Will you marry me?’ The unsupported voice, the one that happened when he couldn’t breathe, but had to speak.I nudged his hands apart to see his face, and found it faintly overcast by tension. ‘No,’ I said gently,He blinked again and asked, his voice unaltered, ‘May I ask you once a year, every seventh of December, in case the answer changes?”Yes. I don’t think it will.”Oh. I only ask because I hate the thought of not having breakfast with you for the rest of my life.”My dear,’ I said. ‘Jamie. That’s a different question.”Oh. Will you have breakfast with me for the rest of my life?”Probably.
