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“You don’t care if it goes to waste. You’ve clearly never had to go without a meal in your whole life. Do you even know how many homeless there are in Clark County?”
I don’t think she gives a fuck about homeless people; she just wants to take a jab at me.
“The homeless are not my problem,” I say plainly. “But if you don’t eat your fucking pancakes, then they become your problem.” I lean back into the hard plastic bench seat of the booth just as the waitress sets our plates in front of us.
“Can I get you more coffee?” she offers.
“Yes,” we say in unison, and then look away from each other. I try to focus on my plate while she focuses on anything but.
I don’t think I’ve eaten a stack of pancakes faster in my life.
I lick the syrup from my fork, and she watches as I place it back down on my empty plate while hers remains mostly untouched, the whipped cream melting against the once hot pancakes.
I reach into my jacket pocket, pulling out a piece of paper and sliding it across the table.
“What’s this?” she asks, looking up from the table, and not bothering to examine it.
“It’s a contract,” I explain.
In a strained voice, I start, “You heard what Rausch said.” I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me or my motivations, but there’s a little pebble in the pit of my stomach that wishes she wouldn’t look at me with such disdain. “I need to either be thirty – or married,” I finish dramatically. Which is the reason she’s here – the reason I asked her to marry me in a not so romantic way – if you can even call it that.
“I don’t turn thirty for another three years, and that fuck, Rausch, will have control over everything until then,” I explain.
“Looks to me like you might need someone to report to.”
I scoff, running a palm over my face.
“You met Rausch. He can be more of an asshole than that, if you’re wondering.”
“Don’t you have some debutante named Buffy willing to marry you?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee. Her eyes are like blue flames peering over the cup at me, waiting for a response. She looks like she might kick me under the table at any moment, so I keep my legs from spreading out too far and giving her a target.
“That’s not what I want.” I level my eyes on her. “Bluebloods run cold, and from the taste I got, you’re a red-blooded all-American.”
She shakes her head in disgust. “I don’t even like you.”
“Even better. I don’t need a romantic entanglement,” I tell her. “Love has a way of complicating things, don’t you think?” I notice when she swallows hard. “You’re a professional, are you not?” I clarify, grabbing a toothpick from the container at the end of the table and rolling it around on my tongue.
She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back as if she’s ready to listen.
“This is the contract.” I drop my eyes to the paper in front of her. “One million dollars to be my wife.”
She stares at me in disbelief.
Looking down at the contract, she pulls it towards her, and I watch as her eyes scan the document. I wish I knew what she was thinking, and wondering if she knows that I need this more than I need to breathe. I was serious when I said I don’t need romantic entanglements. This arrangement is a means to an end, to get my money, and move on with my life.
“A year?”
“For it to be legitimate, yes.”
“And I have to live with you?” she questions, looking up from the contract.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. I assure you, my home in Georgetown is more than satisfactory.”
“Is it big enough where I wouldn’t have to run in to you the whole year?”
I know she’s trying to get under my skin, to let me know how much of an asshole I am, but if it means she’ll sign the contract, I will swallow every insult she can throw at me. “Probably not.” My eyes settle on her perfect pink lips and I wonder if they feel as soft as they look, and right now, I would do anything to find that out. “I’m not into fucking women against their will,” I state with distaste, “if that’s what you're asking. But if you are willing,” I pause and cock an eyebrow, “you might even like it.”
A contemplative look crosses her pretty face, and the part in her lips tells me everything I need to know—everything I felt in the shower. We want the same things.
