Marry Me by Heidi Wessman Kneale

after.
    “Mm-m-iss Mm-mm-oore?”
    She put a finger on his lips. “I’m Millie. To you, I’m Millie. And your name is Raymond, isn’t it?”
    He nodded. “Always w-w-ill be.” He gave her a hopeful smile, breathless.
    The pencil was still in her hands. On the back of the paper bag she wrote her address. “Please call upon me as soon as you can. I don’t want to waste another day.”
    She looked up into his eyes, those green and expressive eyes. Oh, she could get lost in those eyes. Her gaze dropped to his lips flushed from her kiss. Her courage wavered and gave out. Without another word, Millie turned and fled down the street. Her feet did not stop until she’d reached the porch of her own home.
    ****
    Raymond watched Millie hurry down the street. Did that just happen? He raised fingers to his lips, the scent of candy tickling his nose. When she kissed him, the fire of her passion had shot through him. His skin buzzed from the contact. He’d never been kissed like that before.
    He wanted more.
    She’d left the paper bag of hearts in his hand, her address scribbled on the back. Carefully, he tore the address free and tucked it in his top pocket next to the “Marry Me” heart. She did not live far from here—only a few blocks.
    To him she was Millie, as if the intimacy of the kiss wasn’t enough. She wanted him to call on her. He wanted to see her. Candy heart or no, he wanted to taste those lips again, to feel how much she wanted him. To be so desired was intoxicating.
    Raymond dashed up the steps into his sister’s home. So much to do before this afternoon.
    As his hand came to rest on the banister of the stairs, Raymond noticed his audience. Six very curious nieces and nephews lined the landing.
    Helen didn’t bother to hide her grin of delight. Thomas looked less than enthusiastic, almost as if he disapproved of something. The younger Chandlers peered between the rails in varying states of surprise and awe.
    It was Ruth who said aloud what was on all their minds. “Will you marry that lady?”
    ****
    That afternoon Raymond found himself on the porch steps of the Moore residence, a lovely townhouse on a street with trees and garden boxes. While not as extravagant as the Chandler home, it was far nicer than the bachelor apartment he currently occupied.
    He’d been practicing her name: Miss Millie Moore. At first he stumbled over so many “M”s. The more he tried, the more he found the beauty and the rhythm of her alliterative name. It lent itself nicely to a tune, and thus he was able to hum it to himself. By the time his happy feet mounted the brownstone steps of her home, he’d perfected its pronunciation smoothly.
    A maid answered the door.
    He presented his card. “Miss Millie Moore, please,” he sang.
    Of course he sang. Ever since she had declared herself that morning, the song in his heart never ceased.
    The maid didn’t bother with a curtsey, but took the card and shut the door.
    He didn’t mind. He hummed “Miss Millie Moore” as he rocked back and forth on his feet.
    His tune stopped as the door reopened.
    The lady there was not Miss Millie Moore. This one had quite a few more years on her face, as well as a few more pounds on her ample figure. So surprised was he at seeing this unexpected matron he forgot to remove his straw boater hat.
    Then he remembered Mrs. Moore, to whom he had been introduced at the Junior Regatta.
    Mrs. Moore had his card in her hand. She held it at arm’s length for reading. “Mr. Wilson, I see.”
    “A-aftern-noon.” Perhaps she would put his stutter down to nerves?
    Behind her came a familiar, beautiful voice. “Mother, is that the door?” A whirlwind of energy came bounding down the steps, her skirts fluttering with her descent.
    There she was, Miss Millie Moore. He couldn’t help but smile.
    Millie all but shoved her mother aside. “You came.”
    Without asking, she hauled him into the house by his hand. As he passed Mrs. Moore, he remembered to doff