Stable partner.
Thirty.
The pact.
I set my wineglass down on the coffee table.
Presley watches me with concern. “What’s wrong?”
I turn to look at her. Then the words are coming out of my mouth before I can talk myself out of it.
“Marry me.”
She freezes. Her glass paused halfway to her mouth.
“What?”
I lean back and put my arm on the back of the couch behind her head. “I want to cash in on the pact.”
Her eyes widen. “Saint.”
“I’m serious, Doc.”
“I can see that,” she says carefully.
I stand quickly because sitting suddenly feels too confining. “Just listen for a sec. We made a deal.”
“We were in college.”
“We said thirty.”
“That was …”
“Not a joke to me,” I say calmly and truthfully.
That stops her, and her expression goes soft.
I drag both hands through my hair to try to calm myself down and make this sound less insane than I probably do right now.
“The attorneys said a spouse would help.”
She sighs and sets her glass on the coffee table next to mine. “I know.”
“And honestly, Doc, you already are,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Already am what?” Her brows pull together.
“Here,” I say. “With me. Them. You know their routines. They trust you. Hell, Rhyan asks for you, not me, when she wakes up. And Remy talks to you when he won’t talk to me.”
Her throat moves.
“You’re already in this,” I say, voice rougher. “You’re already the person I trust the most.”
“Saint,” she starts.
“Look, I know how this sounds.”
“You do?”
