“I’m being logical,” he said with a careful nod.
“From your ivory tower.”
His expression cooled. “This is not about class.”
“It is absolutely about class,” I shot back. “You get injured, you call a specialist. I get injured, I calculate how many extra hours I can stand before something collapses.”
“You should not be calculating whether you deserve treatment.”
“I’m not calculating whether I deserve it,” I snapped. “I’m calculating whether I can afford it.”
The air between us sharpened.
“You require insurance,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you do not have it.”
“No.”
“Then obtain it.”
I stared at him.
“With what job that offers benefits?” I asked. “You think Merry Band of Maids is handing out dental?”
He didn’t answer.
“There is no magical solution.” I pushed back from the table slightly. “Unless you are planning to marry me and put me on your plan, there is no other option.”
The words were meant to sting. He did not react the way I expected. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t recoil. He went very still. His eyes locked on mine.
“You’re right,” was all he said.
“What?”
“Marry me,” he said.
The air left my lungs. This conversation had my head in circles.
“I was joking,” I said immediately.
“I am not.”
Silence swallowed the kitchen whole. I searched his face for a crack. A tell. A smirk. Something to show that he was joking. Because he had to be joking . . . right?
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
The words landed heavier than the table between us. What was even happening? He could not be serious. I needed air. I stood and made my way back to the kitchen. I couldn’t look at his stupid, handsome face and think straight when he said that.
9
RAPHAEL
What the fuck was I doing?
