I'm on a mission from God. We've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses.

You're not laughing. It's the cigarette thing, right?

I am on a mission from God, that much is true. Matt's whining about being almost out of gas, it's noon, and neither of us smoke.

We are wearing sunglasses.

We are also listening to the Blues Brothers soundtrack, for reasons I can't begin to fathom. Unless Matt is secretly from Chicago or something.

I have enlisted a Republican congressional representative on my mission for a couple of reasons. One: he's a believable cover. My trusty assistant won't question lunch meetings with a congressman. Two: he will keep absolutely silent about the mission. Three: he has impeccable taste in jewelry.

For the last two months we have power-shopped our way through every store in D.C. and most of the suburbs. I'm starting to think I will never find what I am looking for.

Let me just mention that power-shopping on crutches sucks.

I've been torturing this salesman for the better part of twenty minutes. He keeps showing me rings with huge stones and wide bands I just can't picture on Donna's hand.

Thanking the guy for his time, I turn to go. In that instant it catches my eye, overshadowed by everything around it. It is a slender, platinum band. Sturdy, yet delicate, with a beautiful diamond.

"Matt."

As he heads over, I ask the salesman if I can see it.

"Oh, man." Matt is speechless.

"Yeah."

I grin at him.

The diamond, though small, is flawless.

"Half-carat, marquee cut. There's a matching wedding band set."

I'm captivated by it.

Matt claps his hand on my shoulder. "That's the one. Don't think about it. What does your gut tell you?"

"I'll take it."

Donna's ring finger is a size 6, which happens to be fairly standard, so I can take hers with me. My wedding band needs to be sized.

I nearly choke at the total, but fork over the cash. Checks and credit cards can be traced. I don't need "Inside Edition" picking up on my purchase of an engagement ring.

I promise the guy I'll fill out the paperwork on the diamond when I pick up my ring.

****

Sitting in my office with the door closed, I see my future reflecting back at me in this diamond. I'm sure it's the first of many important purchases I will make in the near future. Donna wants kids. Okay, okay. Donna and I both want kids. Kids mean a house. I want to run for Congress when we're done in the White House. That means a residence in Connecticut and one in D.C.

Six months ago, the thought of a wife and kids, not to mention two mortgages, would have had me running for the hills. Today, I'm sitting in my chair with a stupid grin on my face.

I hide the ring in my backpack and open the door.

"DONNA!"

She straggles the twenty feet from her desk to my door.

"You bellowed?"

"What time is it?"

"It's 7 p.m., Josh. Your watch sucks."

She's whiny. It's been a long week.

"Get your stuff. Let's go."

She presses her hand to my forehead.

"You feel okay?"

"I feel fine, Donnatella. Come on. Our reservations are for 7:30."

"You made reservations by yourself?"

Her disbelief wounds me. I mean, I managed to set up our Valentine's Day Do-Over date last month with no problems.

I made reservations at a swank little place Matt recommended for its' discretion and its' cheesecake. For reasons I don't pretend to understand, cheesecake gets Donna all hot and bothered.

You may ask yourself: "what about the ring?" Tonight isn't about me proposing, although I might, if it feels right. Tonight is really about getting down by the fire and making sweet love to Donna.

We have a nice, quiet dinner and when the waiter recommends the cheesecake, Donna's eyes light up.

We go back to my place after dinner. I barely have the door closed behind me when Donna captures me with a kiss that goes all the way to my toes.

She tastes like cherry cheesecake.

Her hands run through my hair and she rips my tie off.

"Slow down." I pant, breaking the kiss.

She's pouting at me, so I point a crutch, indicating my bedroom.

I follow her in, ditching the crutches along the way. I've brought hopping to an new art form.

Pulling her back to me, I slip the zipper on her skirt and it slides down her hips revealing black stockings and garters. No panties, not even a thong.

"You little minx."

She smiles back at me demurely as I unbutton her blouse. The bra goes next, but I leave the stockings and garters. I love garters, just call me Crash.

While Donna kicks her high heels off, I strip to my boxers and lean across the bed to my nightstand.

"Lie down," I gesture to the bed. "On your stomach."

I get a look, but she does as I ask. CJ got me some kind of girly massage oil as an "it's about damn time" gift and I have yet to use it. While she settles into a comfortable position, I shed my boxers.

Donna gasps as I dribble some of the oil on her back. Carefully straddling her hips, I begin to rub it into her smooth skin.

Back rubs. They turn her on more than cheesecake. Once I learned that, I did some research of my own. I could be a massage therapist with all the books I now own.

"Josh."

"Hmm?"

"This is good."

My response is to lavish her body with attention, breathing a streak of coolness up her spine, following it with gentle pressure from my thumbs. I have never heard a woman moan quite like this. Donna usually talks during sex, which is fine. It helps me know what she likes and what she doesn't care for.

I have reduced her to moaning.

Who da man?

***

I pull the comforter up around Donna's sleeping form before I go to the bathroom. I return and snuggle in next to the love of my life, wrapping my arms around her and tucking my head into the crook of her neck, breathing her scent in and whispering my love as I, too, sleep.