“I hate that it makes sense.”
“And even more important to you is that you’ll get out of your tax bind scot-free, and you’ll be able to get on my health insurance plan. Legal antibiotics,” I say with a wink.
“I was joking about the antibiotics. You know that.”
I take a few steps so that we’re closer. Her eyes are wary as she tilts her head back and looks up at me.
“If you don’t like this, if you have any reservations at all, we’re done here,” I tell her. “No pressure. Just say the word and I’ll drop it, and you’ll never hear about it again.”
Her lip pops free. “How long would we have to keep up the charade? Because I don’t want to be married to you forever. I might find The One.”
“I don’t know.”
“Ballpark it, Doc.”
I think fast. “At least until I get the job. Once I’m settled in, we could get divorced or have it annulled.”
“So six weeks, maybe?”
“Probably. Not long. I’ll go to Orlando, and we’ll say you’re staying here to try to sell the business. After a few weeks, we can say it won’t sell or you can’t part with it—whatever you want to say. Then we’ll just tell everyone that we decided to part amicably.”
“Yeah. I’m not moving from here. This is my home. Period.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to leave.”
“Well, you kind of expect me to marry you, it seems, so how do I know where the line is?”
I laugh. “Fair point.”
She walks toward the refrigerator and piles her hair on top of her head. An elastic appears from out of thin air, and she winds it around the ball before turning to face me.
Her features are smoother. The glossiness in her eyes from the wine has waned. She takes a deep breath.
“You know, I find it hilarious that you wouldn’t give me a prescription because it was ethically wrong, but you’d propose a marriage of convenience.”
“Unlawful dispensing of medication is a major offense. Marrying a woman that willingly agrees to the union is not.”
“Whatever.”
She steps away and walks around the island.
Goose bumps break out across my skin. Outside, the full moon holds court over the stars. A breeze from the open window flutters the edges of the curtains.
I run a hand down my face. A nervous energy tears through me, and I have to dig deep to override the instinct to start rushing through things. It’s a trick I learned in veterinary school—how to focus on what’s in front of you and take things a step at a time.
She takes in a long, whooshing breath. “So you would cover half of the property taxes?”
“I would cover them all.”
Her head shakes back and forth. “No. I feel weird about that. But if you could pitch in for half, I could scrounge up the other half, and that really would change a lot of things for me.” She clears her throat. “It’d save the Honey House, and that’s all I really care about.”
“That’s no problem,” I say. “I actually insist on paying them all. It only seems fair.”
She considers this. “Okay. Thank you. But should I feel bad about this? I mean, is this a form of prostitution?”
I know she’s being serious, and I know, too, that I should take this seriously. But . . . I’m me. So I smirk.
“Are you planning on sleeping with me?” I ask.
“No!”
“Then I don’t see how it’s prostitution.” I step behind the island to adjust myself. The thought of her naked, no matter how brief of a moment it was, is enough to make me hard. “Being dead serious, is it really any different from having a second job? You don’t have to do anything other than pretend like you love me for a couple of weeks.”
“Well, when you put it like that . . .”
My voice stays remarkably calm despite how anxious I feel inside. “Anything else?”
Her shoulders relax as she sorts through her thoughts. She puts a finger across her lips as she studies me.
“Fine.” She drops her hand and straightens her shoulders. “This is crazy and feels like it shouldn’t make sense, but it does. And I’ve done enough things in my life that felt like they made sense but didn’t. Plus, your powers of persuasion are on point. And it’s not lost on me that I lost money in my first marriage and am gaining it this time. So . . . yes. I’ll marry you.”
My insides twist into a tight knot before releasing with what feels like a spray of confetti. I watch her for any hint that she’s kidding or reconsidering.
But there’s nothing. Just a look of resolution on her pretty face.
“We go in the morning, before I back out,” she says.
“If you’re afraid of backing out, we aren’t doing this.”
“We are doing this. No take-backs on the proverbial Ring Pops this time.” She forces a swallow. “I have a friend in Dogwood Lane named Haley. She loves this kind of stuff. I know she’ll help me get it all together.”
Holy. Shit.
“Tomorrow?” I ask.
Her hand goes to her hip. “Do you want to do this or not, Doc?”
“Tomorrow sounds great.” I flash her a big smile. “We can go tonight if you want to.”
“Tomorrow morning. Do you work?”
“I can get out of there by noon.”
“Perfect. Let’s be on the road by twelve thirty.”
She starts to turn away but stops. Her hand is shoved my way. It dangles in the air, all dainty and sweet, and I try to hide my smile as I take her palm in mine.
Her skin is warm and soft. I fight the urge to shiver.
Our eyes hold each other, as if they are making a deal of their own. It’s an agreement I don’t want to think about. Not right now with her hand in mine and a hefty dose of adrenaline pouring through my body.
She draws away, breaking contact. Her mouth opens in an exaggerated yawn. She stretches her arms over her head, and I have to force myself not to look at the strip of skin that appears between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her jeans.
“I’m going to bed,” she says. “Today has been crazy, to put it mildly.”
“All right. I’m . . . going to, too, I guess . . .”
“There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
I stick my bottom lip out. “I suck at cooking.”
She points a finger my way as she heads for the doorway. “Nope. Not getting conned into cooking for you. And,” she says before rounding the corner, “I also won’t cook for you when we get married.”
Her feet stop moving so abruptly that she almost falls forward into the wall. She turns and looks at me.
“I just said when we get married,” she says in amazement. “What the heck? What happened in here tonight? How much wine did I drink?”
Before I can answer, she shakes her head and disappears into the darkness.
I sit on a stool at the counter. The silence is almost deafening. I tap a finger against the laminate as I look around the kitchen. Strangely, I think I’d feel comfortable enough to get up and make myself something to eat if I really wanted to.
Images of getting up in the morning and coming down for breakfast shoot through my mind. It’s not a bad thought. Not at all.