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Sapporo was not chosen at random. Penelope came for work—technically. Danbury Publishing had commissioned her to write a feature on international luxury confections, and one name surfaced again and again in her research: Royce Chocolate. A factory rooted in Hokkaido, renowned for its delicate nama chocolates and its devotion to temperature, texture, and restraint. Penelope fell in love with the story long before she tasted a single piece. She wanted to write about how precision could be tender, how indulgence could remain thoughtful, and how something carefully made could feel deeply human.
Colin—her boyfriend of several years—was immediately undone the moment she said the word Japan. He was travel-hungry in the way some people were oxygen-dependent, already mapping routes, bookmarking food stalls, and watching snow-festival videos as if preparing for an exam. If Penelope needed to go for work, he was determined to turn it into an adventure. A winter one, preferably. And, if he was being honest, it would be another chance to go somewhere new with her.
Over the years, Colin learned that traveling with Penelope revealed her in ways nothing else quite did. She was sharper in unfamiliar places, softer in quiet ones. She noticed details others missed, grew stubborn over small things, delighted in victories no one else thought to celebrate. Travel unraveled people, stripped them down to their truest rhythms and each time, he felt as though he was discovering a new facet of the woman he loved. It was like unwrapping something precious again and again, only to find that it made him surer of her every time. If there were moments when he caught himself wondering when, rather than if—well. Snow had a way of making certain thoughts linger.
As for the Featheringtons, resistance was futile. When Portia heard international trip and luxury chocolate, she required no further explanation. She was in. Philippa was sold the moment she realized Sapporo meant layering: soft knits, dramatic coats, sweeping silhouettes, and boots that were impractical but charming. She packed with unrestrained delight, planning outfits as if they were events. Prudence followed out of principle, if only to ensure she was not left out of anything. The trip practically demanded their collective presence. And so, what began as a publishing assignment for the youngest Featherington became a full-scale family expedition—one part research, one part romance, one part open for inevitable chaos—carried halfway across the world.
Penelope’s first step came with a soft, startled laugh. “Oh,” she breathed, looking down at her boots as they sank just slightly into the white. “It really is… like endless confectionery sugar.”
“Told you. This part of Japan doesn’t do subtle, Pen.”
"I should have believed you," she turned slowly toward Colin, taking in the view from the cabin porch framed by the orange Shinto gates nearby—the trees bowed under powder. “It looks like someone erased the world and forgot to put it back.”
“We’ll keep it for ourselves, then.” He pressed a quick, warm kiss to her temple before scooping up a handful of snow and letting it slip through his fingers.
Penelope watched him, amused, until a perfectly packed snowball sailed past her shoulder. “Bridgerton.”
“Featherington.”
“What was that?”
“That, my dear, was a warning."
“Oh, you are done for.”
"How so? Will you attempt to hit me?"
What followed was less a fight and more a series of delighted shrieks and poorly aimed throws. Penelope’s gloves were too bulky, Colin kept laughing mid-throw, and Philippa, having joined them midway, lobbed snowballs with shocking precision. "You two aren't even aiming at each other!"
The two eventually collapsed into breathless laughter, cheeks flushed, hair dusted white. That was when Colin crouched and began shaping a bigger snowball. “We’re building snowmen,” he announced. “I refuse to leave without contributing to local culture.”
“Local what? I don't see anyone else building men made of snow,” Penelope said, kneeling beside him anyway.
Philippa gasped. “Let's start then. Ours will be fashion-forward. Right mum?” Her snowman quickly became the most adorned of the two.
Prudence, drafted as judge, circled the two figures with narrowed eyes. Penelope and Colin’s snowman leaned lopsided but earnest, held up by a branch. Portia and Philippa’s looked like it might walk into a gallery opening. “Well,” she said finally, hands clasped. “If we’re judging eccentricity…” She gestured grandly toward Philippa’s creation. “That one would frighten society so it sort of wins.”
Later, they all found themselves tucked into the glow of ramen alley. Steam curled into the air while lanterns swayed gently overhead.
Penelope cradled her bowl, eyes widening at the depth of the broth. “Oh my lord, this might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.”
"Really? A superlative?" Colin leaned over to steal a bite. “High praise from a woman who once cried over soup.”
“That was alphabet soup. It brought about childhood memories,” she said primly. “This one however, is very different.”
They lost count somewhere after the fourth bowl. By the sixth, Penelope had declared herself done, only to be coaxed into one more by Colin sliding his chopsticks into her hand. “For the article?”
“What are you talking about? I came here to write about chocolates, not broth!”
“For the thrill then and for our grateful tummies! I swear, after this trip, I doubt we'd get another chance to taste soup like this!" He gave her a cheeky little grin.
Colin was obviously in his element. He treated each day like a small pilgrimage, leading them down side streets, pointing out details no one else would have noticed. He tasted everything, posed questions, laughed easily. More than once, Penelope caught him watching her instead of the sights.
The trip was, in every sense, exactly what she had hoped for.
Until the fifth day, when the cold finally made its presence known. It slipped past her layers, settled into her chest, lingered in her throat. She ignored it at first but come evening, her voice had gone soft and hoarse. Moreover, her head throbbed, and the warmth of the cabin felt suddenly insufficient.
Colin noticed before she said a word. He always did. It was during dinner at the hotpot restaurant when his hand found hers beneath the table and stilled. “You’re shaking."
“I’m not,” Penelope replied. "I'm..."
“You’ve been pale all day, my love. Don't think I did not notice you.”
She smiled at him, that familiar, reassuring smile she used when she didn’t want to worry anyone. “I think I’m just tired. We've had full days lately. Maybe my body is just adjusting.”
He didn’t look convinced. "Adjusting to what?"
"To all the excitement, of course!"
Colin couldn't think of a counter for that because he too felt the same thrill. Unfortunately, as it turned out, her body was unprepared for the Sapporo delight.
Portia knocked on Penelope’s door before dawn, tea already in hand, and took one look at her flushed face before clicking her tongue. “I'm afraid you'll have no sightseeing today, young lady,” her mother declared firmly. “You’re staying in the cabin.”
“But mother—” Penelope tried.
“No buts. We did not travel all this way for you to fall ill and pretend otherwise. I am not having it, Penelope. Did you know that the nearest hospital is half an hour away? I don't want to drag you through the snow, okay?”
Colin hovered helplessly behind them, worry written plainly across his face.
“But, we were meant to go to the Royce Chocolate Factory today,” Penelope said quietly. “It’s meant to be the highlight.”
"If you're not well, Pen..."
She winced—not at the mention of chocolate, but at the disappointment in his voice. She reached for his hand. “I have an idea!"
"What?"
"You should all go. I’d hate to be the sole reason everyone misses out."
"How could we?" Colin frowned.
“Col, I’m serious. You can take all the photos and videos. Take a million of them! Think of it as me being there...just behind the lens.”
“Pen.” He obviously didn’t want to go. It showed in the way he lingered by her bed, the way he adjusted the blankets himself, and the way he kissed her forehead. “I can't go,” he said at once.
“Colin, I thought you'd do anything for me?”
“But—”
“No buts.”
“There will always be a but, Pen!”
"Just go, please. My mother and sisters are waiting for you."
Penelope might have thought she’d won but by the time the medicine dragged her under, the matter felt settled. She would stay. They would go. Royce Chocolate Factory would happen without her, and she would simply write around it.
Downstairs, the door creaked open to let in a burst of cold air but Colin stopped. “Wait a minute."
Philippa blinked. “What is it?”
Colin hesitated only a moment, “Maybe we could visit a different factory? There are others in the city, as far as I know.”
Prudence frowned. “But Royce is the reason we even came here, Colin.”
Portia agreed easily. “And what about the documentation Penelope needs for her article?”
“Wouldn’t it be better,” he continued, carefully casual, “if she experienced it herself? I really don't want her to miss this. She can't. She really can't.”
Portia looked at Colin the way she did when she was reassessing an investment. Then, she smiled. “Are you planning something, Colin? Something you want to loop us in?”
"Maybe."
Philippa brightened at once, after searching for a tour group on the booking app. “Oh! There’s that other boutique chocolatier near Odori Park."
“Perfect,” Portia declared, already reaching for her gloves. “Royce can wait for Penelope and Colin, then.”
Prudence nodded a little too quickly. “Yes. It would be a shame for her to miss… something important.”
Philippa shot her sister a look. “Something?”
"The experience. Obviously.” Colin lifted a shoulder, attempting casual. “Besides, timing matters.”
That evening, Colin caught Penelope standing by the window, staring out with an expression caught somewhere between frustration and longing. “You’re disappointed."
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Colin exhaled slowly, crossed the room and sat her on the edge of the bed.
“well, it’s just—” She stopped herself. “You didn’t go to the Royce factory and we had agreed that...”
“No. You had agreed upon it. I hadn't said yes to it,” He shook his head. “Besides, your sisters, your mother and I voted to go somewhere else..."
She searched his face, trying to read what he wasn’t saying. “Was it because of me?”
“It was because of you,” he said gently. “But not in the way you think.”
Penelope swallowed. “I’m just worried about the article.”
“Pen, forget the article. We just couldn’t go,” Colin said immediately. “Not without you.” Something in his voice made her pause. “Look, I think you needed to see it yourself, to feel it. To understand the process and the experience properly. Anything else would have been… incomplete. You wouldn't want that, right? For your writing to not be a reflection of you?”
“It's just that...I’m not sure I’ll be able to go,” she admitted, honesty slipping past her guard. “I'm afraid that instead of getting better, I feel as though this cold has only gotten worse. I had chills during midday, you know.”
His hand tightened around hers. “We have time, my love.”
“Do we?” she asked softly, more tired than skeptical. “I look at the calendar and only see Sunday, which is our flight back to London. What if... what if...”
Colin didn’t answer immediately. “You need not overthink now. When you’re better, we'll go. I could already tell, you're going to get better.”
Penelope closed her eyes, letting his presence steady her, even as doubt tugged quietly at her thoughts. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe her body would cooperate, that the cold would loosen its hold, that she would not leave having missed the very heart of why she had come. She squeezed his hand once, accepting the reason even as hope felt fragile. “Okay, I trust you. You have magic powers, anyway."
"I do. Plus, I love you, Pen. You know I’d do anything to make you happy.”
“Thanks, I love you too,” she breathed.
Colin urged, “Now, come on..."
"Where to?"
"Where else? To lie down on the bed! I heard body heat will help you heal faster,” he nuzzled against her hair.
A weak laugh escaping her lips, “Where did you hear that from?”
“Google,” he pressed a soft kiss to her temple and then another to her hair. A total of three, four, five kisses.
Soon, they were snuggled and her eyes drifted open just enough to see the flowers lying beside them, frost still clinging to its petals. “I almost forgot... thank you for my yellow tulips.”
He shrugged, a little shy. “I saw them on the path on the way back. I thought they might cheer you up.”
"I do like them, even if they’re… cold and frozen,” she said softly, a bittersweet smile forming. “I'm thinking they're just like me on this trip.”
"Nah, soon, the ice will melt away,” he said. “You know everything warms again, in its time.”
A mischievous smile tugged at her lips. “Did you really go out in this weather to pick flowers?”
“Well, one must make sacrifices for love.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Oh yeah? How did that go?”
He spoke, “It was negative fifteen, Pen and I removed my gloves, willingly.”
“What?!” Penelope gasped. “How dare you let your delicate fingers get cold for a tulip?” Her heart swelled—at the absurdity, at the quiet tenderness behind it.
“Well, I am sentimental. And, could you really blame me? You forget. I’m hopelessly in love,” a soft chuckle warmed the space between them.
“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow, “And who is she—the one you’re hopelessly in love with?”
“Would you like a few hints?"
“Yes please.”
“Hmmmm, let's see. Her name starts with a P…”
Penelope tilted her head, pretending to think. “P… Philippa?”
“Nope,” Colin bit back a laugh. “Though that's her sister's name...”
“I'm getting close?”
“Very much,” he said softly. “Her name rhymes with E-lo-pe.”
“E-LO-PE?!” she squeaked, pushing at his chest. “What on earth—give me at least a real name!”
"ELOPE is a word... but you're right, it is not a name," He grinned. “Alright. How about...it rhymes with melody?”
“Melody?”
“Yeah, she is the melody to every song I hear,” he said, snuggling closer beneath the duvet.
Penelope groaned. “Ughh, cheesy. Am I getting Cheesy Colin tonight?”
“Indeed, now keep guessing… while I keep you warm.” Without warning, Colin slid his hands beneath the hem of her sweater, seeking warmth with entirely too much confidence.
“COLIN! Your fingers are frozen!”
He laughed, clearly delighted by her reaction. “Yes but you just said I had delicate fingers!”
“I take it back!” she yelped, squirming as she tried—and failed—to block him. “I take it back entirely!”
“No,” he said cheerfully, hands still cool against her warm skin. “No refunds on compliments, babe,” He only laughed harder, nestling closer until his warmth finally began to win out over the cold.
Penelope huffed, half indignant, half breathless. “This is not what I meant when I said keep me warm.”
“Well, you didn’t specify the method, did you?”
Two days later, Penelope finally woke feeling like herself again. The fever was gone. The ache had dulled. When she swung her legs out of bed, even that motion felt like a victory. When she descended the stairs, wrapped in a thick sweater and scarf, the room fell quiet.
Again, Colin was the first to notice. “Pen? What are you doing up and about—”
“Guess what! I’m alive, and mobile!” she twirled.
Prudence gasped. “Ah, my favorite youngest sister finally walks among us!”
Her boyfriend crossed the room in three strides, his hands landed steady on her arms as he searched her face. “Are you sure? Is your throat okay? Your fever gone?”
“Yes! I feel… ready for the snow!”
Relief washed over him, along with something else she couldn’t quite name. "So, it was true then!"
Penelope looked confused, "What was true?"
"The body heat method!" Colin replied. "It worked!"
She nudged him hard, embarrassed since her sisters and her mother were just close by.
“I'll forget I heard that. So today, we were thinking of revisiting the city,” Philippa said. “Snow festival stalls, perhaps?”
“Don't forget the shopping, Pip!” Prudence added brightly.
“Actually,” Penelope countered, “I’ve already made plans for us.”
Colin stared. “You have? When?”
She smiled. “I felt better early this morning so I made a few calls.”
Portia narrowed her eyes. “Where to, my dear?”
“I called Royce. Spoke a bit of broken Japanese but everything's confirmed,” she continued calmly. “Our party is booked for a private chocolate tour at eleven o' clock today!”
"How exciting!" her sisters and her mother all declared.
Colin only stared, the surprise in his expression slowly giving way to something else.
She met his gaze, “After all, it would be a shame to miss the sweetest part of our trip. Right?”
Penelope felt a thrill she hadn’t realized she’d been holding back. With her camera in hand, she darted from display to display, snapping photos, filming short clips, and asking every question she could think of to the English-speaking guide. “Is this the traditional method for tempering the chocolate? And these decorations—are they hand-applied?”
The tour guide happily answered, “Yes, everything is crafted by hand. It’s a delicate process, balancing temperature, timing, and… care, if you will.”
She grinned, scribbling notes in her journal. “Care, perfect word for this. And these—” she held up a piece, letting it melt slightly on her finger before tasting it, “—absolutely divine. Oh! And can I try the pistachio topping?”
"Of course!"
Colin, however, was a few steps behind, standing stiffly. He picked up a chocolate, examined it, and then took the tiniest bite. A second later, he dropped it back onto the plate. He gave her a small, almost imperceptible shrug, busying himself with adjusting the sleeve of his coat. “It’s… good,” he was barely audible, as if tasting chocolate were a chore rather than a delight.
Penelope’s heart sank slightly. Was he… upset? She turned back to him, her stomach tightening. He was leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, eyes scanning the factory floor with a strange, almost detached air. Not even the sweet aroma or the perfectly crafted chocolates seemed to coax a smile. Even as the guide demonstrated the delicate swirls on the chocolates and the careful layering of truffles, Colin seemed… elsewhere.
“Babe? You okay?” she asked again, hoping to catch his attention.
"I’m… fine,” he said quickly, but it lacked conviction. “Really, this is fun.”
But this wasn’t him. This was supposedly Colin who had a nose for the best pastries in London. Penelope tried to focus on the tour again. She decided to push the worry aside for now. There were photographs and videos to take, questions to ask, flavors to savor. For now, she would indulge herself fully in the chocolate wonderland she’d traveled across the world to experience. Maybe, she’d get to figure out what was going on with her boyfriend later.
At last, they reached the end of the tour: the part she had been secretly anticipating most where they had a chance to assemble their own chocolate bars. Long tables stretched across the room, lined with pristine slabs of dark, milk, and white chocolate. Bowls of toppings gleamed—crushed nuts, freeze-dried berries, flecks of gold leaf, colorful shards of candy glass.
“I can't believe it! This is everything I’ve dreamed of,” Penelope was already rolling up her sleeves. She grabbed a piping bag, hands steady as she traced delicate swirls across the glossy surface of her bar, sprinkling freeze-dried raspberries with careful intent. "Oooh, I'm making three more, two for Eloise and another for your mother!"
Colin lingered beside her, still half in observer mode. He sat on the stool when Penelope nudged a bar toward him and pressed toppings into his palm, something shifted. He hesitated for a second, then continued to add a swirl. A sprinkle. A few nuts.
Without warning, she stepped behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Babe, you’ve been feeling tensed, have you?” Her fingers pressed in gently near his neck.
Colin got startled. “Pen—what in the world?!” he spun halfway toward her before immediately stilling and realizing his reaction. “Sorry about that but I'm really fine. It’s probably just the air conditioning.”
“What’s wrong with the A/C?”
“I don’t know but I’m… sweating!” He tugged at his puffer jacket and shrugged it off, and Penelope blinked at the undeniable proof where beads of sweat drooped at his temples, his hairline was damp, and his cheeks flushed a vivid pink.
“Oh my goodness, who sweats in a freezer? Only you, sir.”
He wiped his palms on a clean napkin, letting out a breathy, nervous laugh. “Yes, well. It’s a Bridgerton trait. High metabolism. Highly… emotional.”
“What exactly is highly emotional about making your own chocolates?”
"I don't know... a sugar rush?"
Minutes later, Penelope finished her final flourish, holding up her bar with pride. She broke off a piece, lifting it toward her lips. "Ooohhhh, this is gonna taste so perfect! I just know it!"
“Pen, wait a minute.” Colin stepped in front of her, holding a box—larger than any chocolate box she had ever seen. Comically so. “I’ve chosen this one for you to try first,” he said, a little too quickly.
She frowned. “But I want to taste mine.”
“I think—you’ll like this one—better.”
“What? How would you know?”
“Because I made it—for you.” The tone stopped her cold. Not flirtatious. Not playful at all.
She studied him. “Colin… we all used the same tempered chocolate. Weren't you paying attention to the guide?”
"Pen, just take it."
Without thinking, she snatched the box from his hands and shoved it into her bag. “There. Happy now?”
His eyes widened in pure horror. “PENELOPE!”
“What?” she asked, startled. “Why do you look like I’ve committed a crime? What did I do this time?”
“I—I just need my chocolate box back.”
“Are you serious? A minute ago you wanted me to open it. Now that it's in my bag, you want it back? Make it make sense, Bridgerton!”
“Yes, I want it back please!” he said, holding out his hand, voice urgent.
“You know what, here," she sighed, utterly baffled, and handed it back. "Knock yourself out.”
Colin took the box then spoke, “For the record, I want it back because I want you to open it—while I hold it.”
She set her own bar aside and faced him fully. “Colin, I did not want to believe it but you have been acting really strange this entire tour. What is going on with you?”
“Just open the box, and you’ll find out.”
"Just—open—the—box. Fine," slowly, carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside were layers upon layers of chocolate bars—their chocolates—each wrapped in translucent Royce paper, stacked with almost precision. They looked like lasagna layers if she were being too honest. “Okay? What… exactly am I looking for? They all look the same as my chocolates!”
His head popped into view over the edge of the box, brows furrowed. “It should be there. I definitely put it in there.”
“What should be in here?” she asked, confusion deepening, removing her hand again. "This is silly. You can't even tell me?"
"Oh bugger!" This time, Colin’s hand plunged into the box, shifting chocolates aside, jaw tight. He pulled one out. Then another. Then—absently—he peeled back a wrapper and shoved a piece into his mouth, chewing distractedly as he searched.
“I'm sorry, did you just stress-eat a piece?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why so? Are you looking for a chocolate-covered cherry?” she teased weakly.
“Please don’t jest right now, Pen,” he whispered. "I'm not in the mood."
"TSK. Not in the moo—" Then she saw it. He was kneeling. One knee on the floor. Hand still buried in the box. Quiet. Blinking up at her. “Now you're kneeling? What in the world…?”
"I might as well eat my way through it." He continued to break off a chunk of the chocolate bar and pop it into his mouth. Crunch. The sound was wrong. He stopped chewing. He coughed—not violently, just enough for his shoulders to tense and his eyes to widen.
“Are you all right?” Penelope asked sharply.
He leaned forward slightly, covering his mouth, then very deliberately—very carefully—spat something into a napkin. Metal glinted through the chocolate smear. He unfolded the napkin fully. The ring lay there—slick with chocolate, unmistakable now. A brilliant solitaire diamond, encircled by a delicate halo of smaller stones, still somehow shining through the absurdity of it all.
Realization crashed into her. “Oh my god—” she pressed a hand to her mouth. “There was a ring in there?!”
“I told you I dropped it earlier, but the chocolate seemed to have solidified around it,” he admitted sheepishly. “I had no choice but to bite it off."
Philippa shrieked, “OH MY GOODNESS, COLIN. YOU ALMOST ATE YOUR OWN ENGAGEMENT RING?”
Prudence clutched her chest. “I knew this day would be dramatic, but I did not expect internal peril.”
He wiped the ring carefully—once, twice—then, as if none of this were remotely unhinged and smiled at her. “Penelope Featherington,” he said, voice steady despite everything.
"What?" Her eyes registered confusion, surprise, a mix of both.
“You were right. I was acting strange because I was nervous. I planned something eloquent to go with this but clearly, I did not see this coming. However, the point remains.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “Pen, we’ve traveled far together, haven’t we?”
“We have.”
“From cobblestone streets in London to quiet mornings in Rome. From bustling cafés to hidden corners of Florence.” He smiled softly. “And now here—in Sapporo, surrounded by snow and chocolate—I’ve realized something.” His fingers tightened slightly around the ring. “Everywhere I go, every place we explore, every meal, every ridiculous misadventure—it’s better with you. I don’t just want to travel the world with you. I want to travel through life with you.”
Penelope’s eyes glistened, her breath shallow, the weight of every word settling deep in her chest.
“I want our journey to be endless,” Colin continued. “I want us to discover every horizon, wander every alleyway, and greet every sunrise and sunset together.” He took a breath. “I want to do it… as your husband. If you're going to say yes...”
“Oh my god,” Penelope whispered, breathless. She reached for the ring, but Colin gently took her hands instead. “It’s beautiful... even though it's rather sticky with chocolate and your saliva."
His voice softened. “Pen, will you marry me? Will you keep choosing this adventure—with me—for the rest of our lives?”
Philippa, filming the entire thing, gasped dramatically. “Pinch me. This is the Bridgerton–Featherington proposal we’ve been waiting for!”
Penelope blinked. “Wait… you all knew this was in the works? You all had a say in this?”
Her sisters exchanged a look, attempting innocence and failing spectacularly. Prudence said too quickly. “Fine! We knew. It was supposed to happen during our first Royce visit but you got sick, sissy! Remember?”
Penelope’s jaw dropped. “What?! The first Royce visit...”
Colin shrugged sheepishly, still kneeling. “I wanted it to be perfect, Pen. And… the timing had to be right. I couldn’t very well propose to someone who wasn’t actually here.”
“Oh… I can’t even believe this.” She laughed shakily, looking down at him. “Wait—why are you still kneeling?”
“Because you haven’t even answered me! I don't want to assume you want to be Mrs. Colin Bridgerton.”
“Please! Of course it’s a yes!”
"Really?"
Penelope let her heart take in the scene in front of her until she let out a huge sigh. "Col, it's always a yes with you, okay?" This was when he slid her ring onto her finger.
Philippa threw her arms into the air. “OH, KISS HIM!! SEAL THE DEAL! KISS YOUR FIANCÉ!!!”
Portia, arms crossed but eyes shining, smirked. “Yes, please make it worth the wait, you two!”
Colin rose and kissed her. It was slow, warm, deliberate. Penelope melted into him, arms sliding around his neck as laughter and cheers blurred into the background. When they finally pulled back, Colin rested his forehead against hers. “Hello, Mrs. Soon-to-be Bridgerton.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bridgerton."
“AAAAAHHH! FINALLY!” Philippa shouted. “About time, you fools!”
“I truly thought you were choking for a moment there,” Penelope admitted. “I was trying to figure out how I’d do the Heimlich on you when I’m—”
“Merely two apples tall?” he teased.
“An exaggeration, I can tiptoe you know that,” she sniffed, smiling. “I still can’t believe you did this...but more importantly, how you almost ate the ring... out of frustration.”
“Neither could I, but it was worth it.” He glanced at her hand. “Hmmm, would you like me to rinse your ring with soap and water?”
“That would be nice.”
“Unless, you prefer it thoroughly seasoned with my essence.”
“Colin,” she hissed. “Please don’t speak like you’re about to get kinky. My mother and my sisters are right there.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her ear. Then, softer—utterly unrepentant—“Actually… you know I’m really not.”
“I swear, you are never allowed to propose with food again.”
“Works for me, I only ever planned to propose to you, anyway."
“Right," she couldn't help but smile at that thought. "This is the beginning of our next adventure, huh?”
His thumb brushed over her hand. “I don’t think so. It’s just the continuation of the one I never ever want to end.”
