Chapter 23 Shopia, Would You Marry Me?
“Excuse me, may I sit here? I’m Justin. Justin Maxwell.” The name hit her like cold water. She turned. He stood a respectful three meters away, hands in the pockets of a faded khaki jacket, camera slung across his chest, sun-bleached curls falling into green eyes that had nothing of Alex’s storm in them.
A crooked, sheepish smile that felt like sunlight after weeks of rain.
“Different Maxwell,” he added quickly, reading the flinch she couldn’t quite hide. Sophia studied him for a long moment, taking in the salt-stiff hair, the freckles across his nose, and the honest curiosity in his eyes. Then she scooted over, making room on the ledge.
“Sit, but if you start quoting share prices, I push you off.”
He laughed and folded his long frame beside her, leaving a careful hand-width of space. They watched the sun bleed into the sea in silence for a while.
“I read your book.” Something in her chest unclenched, just a fraction.
He pulled a small paper bag from his pocket and offered it. “Panellets from the old lady in Gràcia. Pine nut and sweet potato. Best in Catalonia.”
She took one. Bit. Closed her eyes at the taste.
“Good?” he asked.
“Dangerously,” she admitted.
They shared the rest in quiet, watching night swallow the city. When the lights of the basilica flickered on below them, he finally asked,
“Any chance you’d let a stranger buy you dinner? No ulterior motives. Just carbonara on a rooftop, I know, and maybe a bottle of wine that doesn’t come with a billionaire’s ego.”
Sophia looked at him, no shadows of Alex in the set of his shoulders. No calculation in his smile. She felt curious for the first time in months.
"Only one condition," she said.
"Name it."
"You will never, ever call me Sophia Hart again. My name is Sofia Vale now.”
“Sofia Vale. Got it.” He nodded.
He stood up and reached out his hand. She grabbed it. His palm was warm, calloused, and steady. As they climbed down the spiral stairs into the violet evening, she realized she hadn’t thought about the scarlet dress once since he’d said hello.
Three months later, a small flat above a bookshop in Alfama, Lisbon. Justin’s laughter echoed from the kitchen as he burned garlic for the third time that week.
Sofia, barefoot, wearing an old Smiths T-shirt and with her hair in a messy knot, leaned in the doorway to watch him swear at the pan in Portuguese, which he had learned on YouTube. Her phone had been in a drawer, turned off, for weeks. Her new novel about a woman who falls in love with a man who carries light rather than shadows was partially written on the kitchen table. Justin noticed her staring, grinned, and flicked a tea towel at her hip.
"Stop acting cocky, Vale, or I'll make you eat charcoal garlic."
She moved across the room, wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, and pressed her cheek against his shoulder blades.
“I like you better when you burn dinner,” she murmured against his shirt.
He turned in her arms, kissed her slow and lazy, tasting of wine and smoke and home. Outside, the trams clanged up the hill. Inside, the past was finally kept where it belonged, locked in a Mayfair closet with a dress that no longer fit the woman wearing his T-shirt. And somewhere in Europe, Alex Maxwell was still opening the velvet box every night, staring at the diamond stud, and wondering how you apologize to ashes.
Mallorca, a year later.
The finca belonged to an old friend of Justin’s mother. They had come for a long weekend and stayed three weeks. Tonight the sky was a riot of stars, the sea below the cliff a black mirror. Justin had spent the day diving, photographing the underwater caves at Sa Calobra, while Sofia finished the final chapter of her third novel.
They ate on the terrace, with grilled octopus, tomato and garlic bread, and a bottle of Binissalem rosado that had warmed up from the heat. After dinner, Justin went inside without explanation. Sofia remained barefoot on the warm stone, her hair loose and salt-curled, wearing nothing but one of his faded linen shirts, the hem brushing mid-thigh. He came back carrying an ancient battery lantern and a blanket.
“No questions,” he said, voice rough with nerves. “Just follow me.”
The path down to the cove was steep, lit only by the lantern and the low moon. When they reached the sand, he’d already been there earlier: a circle of candles in glass jars flickered against the rocks, the tide lapping gently at the edges. In the center lay a single sarong spread like a bed, scattered with bougainvillea petals the color of her old scarlet dress but softer, bruised-pink in the candlelight. Sofia’s breath caught. Justin set the lantern down, turned to her, and took both her hands.
“I had a speech,” he started, voice low, “but every version sounded like someone else. So I’m just going to tell you the truth.” He dropped to one knee in the sand.
From his pocket he drew not a ring box, but a small, battered film canister. Inside was a simple gold band, worn thin, engraved on the inside with tiny coordinates 39.7930° N, 2.7090° E. The exact spot on the Sagrada Família rooftop where they’d met.
“Sofia Vale,” he said, eyes shining, “I don’t have empires to give you. I have sand in my shoes, a camera that leaks light, and a heart that’s been yours since the first panellet you stole from my hand.” He swallowed hard.
“I want mornings where you burn the coffee and I burn the garlic. I want to photograph you at sixty, at eighty, with salt in your hair and laugh lines I put there. I want to build a life that has nothing to do with anyone else’s ruins.” He opened the canister fully and tipped the ring into his palm.
“Marry me. Not because you need saving, you never did, but because I want to spend every day proving I'm worthy of the woman who rose from the ashes and continues to love gently."
Sofia’s knees gave out. She sank into the sand in front of him, tears tracking clean lines through the salt on her cheeks.
“Yes, God, yes,” she whispered.
He slid the ring onto her finger, warm from his pocket, and kissed her as if the world was ending and beginning at the same time. The kiss quickly became hungry. She tasted salt, wine, and him, and they became desperate. Justin laid her back onto the sarong, bougainvillea petals clinging to her hair and her skin.
He peeled his shirt off her body like he was unwrapping something sacred, his mouth following every new inch of skin he exposed: the hollow of her throat, the curve where neck met shoulder, and the soft underside of her breast. She arched when he closed his lips around her nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp his name into the night.
His hands were everywhere calloused palms sliding up her thighs, pushing them apart, thumbs tracing the slick heat already waiting for him.
“Christ, Sofia,” he groaned against her stomach, voice ragged. “You’re soaked.”
“For you,” she breathed, fingers threading through his sun-bleached curls.
“Always for you.” He licked a slow, deliberate line straight to her core, tongue flattening against her clit until her hips jerked off the sand.
Two fingers slid inside her, curling, stroking that spot that made her see stars brighter than the ones above them. She came hard and fast the first time, back bowing, his name a broken prayer on her lips.
He didn’t let her catch her breath. Rose hovered over her, kicked off his shorts, and settled between her thighs. The head of his cock nudged at her entrance, teasing, until she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him in. They both moaned when he sank home. He moved slowly at first, savoring every inch, every clench, every shudder. Then faster, harder, the slap of skin against skimixing with the crash of waves, candlelight flickering over sweat-slick bodies. She clawed at his back, met every thrust, whispered filthy, reverent things against his ear until he was shaking.
“Come with me,” he growled, thumb finding her clit again, rubbing in tight circles.
She shattered a second time, walls pulsing around him, dragging him over the edge with her. He buried his face in her neck, hips jerking as he spilled inside her.
They stayed locked together, trembling, hearts hammering against each other, the tide lapping inches from their feet. Eventually he lifted his head, brushed a petal from her cheek, and smiled.
“Mrs. Maxwell-to-be,” he whispered, Sofia laughed through the tears still falling.
“Mrs. Vale-Maxwell,” she corrected, kissing him slow and sweet.
“Hyphenated. I kept the part I built myself.” He grinned against her mouth.
“Deal.”