His appearance, its subtle handsomeness and flagrant maleness, didn’t help either. Those navy-blue eyes were magnetic. Always had been, always would be. That thick, silver-touched russet hair, ruffled from the winter wind, made her want to smooth it with gentle fingers. And that new, post-divorce beard, the way it outlined his jaw and contoured his cheeks, only made looking away from him more difficult.
She knew that squinty, challenging expression, the way his thick brows drew together. She knew that low, measured tone. He wouldn’t give up, on her or on his cockamamie plan.
He’d even pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, a telltale sign he meant business.
And in the end, they both understood she didn’t have a choice. Not really. Even though the prospect of a loveless marriage with James made her ache in ways she didn’t care to consider further.
“Please, Elizabeth.” His voice had turned coaxing, liquid and sweet as her cocoa. “Please marry me.”
She took a long sip of that cocoa for fortitude before she surrendered.
“Okay.” Another sip, and then she met that intent blue gaze, now flaring with victory. “Okay, James. I’ll marry you.”
He sagged against the counter and let out a slow breath, his arms finally uncrossing. Then he smiled at her, his cheeks creasing beneath that way-too-attractive beard, and despite her worry, she couldn’t help smiling back.
The relief of the decision, however hard-fought, dizzied her.
She wasn’t alone in her battles. Not anymore. Not as long as they were married.
Praise God, soon she’d have good health insurance. The moment her coverage became effective, she could get her lump biopsied and afford any necessary treatment. She could schedule her yearly skin exam at the dermatologist. Hell, she could see any doctor she needed to for any of a thousand reasons.
And James would be her husband. Hers. After almost thirty years.
But only for a brief stretch of time.
She didn’t realize she was crying again until he brushed away her tears with gentle, careful sweeps of his thumbs. When he tugged her up from her seat and into his arms, she didn’t resist.
Why did this one man always smell like home to her?
Why did his arms around her always feel like a fortress?
She pulled away after a few seconds to blow her nose and recover herself, but it was too late. The sudden, unexpected release of weeks of tension had weakened her, and so had that devastating smile of his and the safe clasp of his embrace.
She had no more resistance left. She was accepting the inevitable, much as it might hurt in the end.
So after only a few more minutes of discussion and persuasion, she lowered her chin to the kitchen table and closed her eyes. “Fine. I’ll move in with you.”
“Good,” he said, patting away the last wetness on her face with a soft cotton dishcloth.
Within seconds, he’d planned how they’d pack up any necessities from her house and transfer them to his before the wedding ceremony. Talked about using his truck and the help of his construction buddies. Worked out all the details with obvious satisfaction in that deep voice.
But before he could get too smug, she insisted on a few addenda.
“First, we need a prenup.” She sat up straight. “Not to protect me. To protect you and reassure your kids. I’m not the rightful beneficiary of any of your possessions or money, and I want that clear to everyone involved.”
That prenup might also provide her with a reminder, if she needed one, of the precise terms of their marriage. The document’s strict bounds would confine her. Corral any wayward emotions.
He shook his head. “You won’t take advantage of me, Elizabeth. Everyone knows that. And if they don’t, they should.”
“We’re doing it,” she told him. “Or else the deal is off.”
Despite his narrow-eyed death stare, she didn’t falter or flinch.
He sighed. “Fine. We’ll get a prenup.”
“Second, we need to make a list of all our expected household expenses and divvy them up fairly.” Fishing in her purse, she located her phone. “Let’s do that over pizza. I’m paying.”
He took the cell from her hand and gave his own credit card number for the order, despite her protestations. A fitting start to the expense-allotment discussion, which—to her complete lack of surprise—didn’t go smoothly either. Even Carmelo’s truly excellent chicken parmesan pizza couldn’t make the stubborn man across the table see reason.
