And most urgently, she needed health insurance. He had that, and he could give it to her. Under one circumstance.
It was an extreme solution, out of character for them both. But how would he feel if he did nothing, and she suffered unnecessarily? If she—fuck, he didn’t want to consider it, but he had to—
What if she died when he could have helped?
How would that feel?
Could he stand by and watch her waste away because he refused to act?
No. Shit, no.
The steady, warm light of her goodness wasn’t getting extinguished on his watch. No fucking way.
“James?”
She was smiling uncertainly at him, despite her exhaustion and fear. Even under the harsh light of the garage door opener, her hair glowed like a halo. Her bloodshot blue eyes were deep and kind and so beautiful he almost wept.
And he finally understood.
That was why he hadn’t insisted on getting answers from her before. Why he hadn’t dug deeper and tried to get closer and discovered the heart of her.
First, he’d been with Viv. Then he’d needed to recover from the disastrous aftermath of his marriage. Either way, he’d chosen not to play with fire.
For him, Elizabeth was a flame.
If he’d insisted on answers, if he’d learned her inside and out, he’d known what would happen. On some level, he’d always known.
If he got too close, he’d care too much. She’d incinerate his marriage. She’d incinerate him.
But for the first time in almost three decades, he was ready to get burned.
He took a deep breath and met the gentle, confused eyes of his longtime friend.
“Elizabeth,” he said, “will you marry me?”
Four
Elizabeth argued for hours.Oh, how she argued.
Blinking away the prickle of tears—because how could she not cry at so much kindness?—she told him her circumstances didn’t require such a gallant gesture. She told him she’d find another way to pay for her medical expenses. She told him he’d meet another woman he wanted to marry and regret either the illegality of bigamy or the hassle of divorce.
They stayed in that garage long enough for the overhead light to switch off. But even in the dark, she could see the very real distress in his eyes when he mentioned her biopsy, hear the certainty with which he told her he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t help her this way.
So despite all her arguments, he didn’t budge. Instead, he led them into the warmth of the kitchen, fiddled with something in his microwave, and upped the ante.
“The only logical path forward is for you to marry me.” After handing her a steaming mug of way-too-expensive hot chocolate—her favorite brand, damn him—he leaned back against the counter. “And we might as well save some living expenses in the meantime. Why don’t you move in?”
She promptly burned her tongue on the cocoa. “What?”
“We’ve been roommates before.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, completely calm. “I know we can live together comfortably.”
She put down the mug and gaped at him. “We weretwenty, James. I’m forty-seven now. Set in my ways.”
“Maybe so, but I’m flexible,” he said with a shrug.
That was a damned lie.
Still, he kept looking at her, a virtual wall of a man. Maybe he wasn’t overly tall, but he was strong and built solid, with enough extra heft around the middle to make her feel sheltered in his presence. In her mind, he’d always taken up more space and oxygen than was justified by his size, just through sheer, quiet force of personality.
