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She thinks I’m predictable. She hates surprises, or so she says, but that just makes me want to surprise her even more.
So, I say the one word that I know will shock her the most, “Yes.”
He said yes.
I don’t think I can believe that word. He just said it to shock me. I know him well enough to know that. I know he doesn’t want to get married—ever. I just asked him because I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I needed to ask. I need him to know the truth.
“Yes? That’s your answer? Just like that? You don’t even want to have a discussion about it or ask why I am proposing marriage when, only hours ago, I was engaged and going to get married to another man the next day.”
He grins.
Damn it, I hate his grin. It makes me do things I never thought I would. It makes me feel things I shouldn’t. Asher is a dick, an asshole. I have to remember that above everything else. I have to stay strong and not let him influence me. This is just an arrangement to solve my problem, nothing more. That’s what I have to convince him of anyway. Even if my heart flutters much too fast anytime I am around him.
“I’m sure I’ll figure out why you want me to marry you soon enough. I know enough about you to know that there is a very clear reason why. And I know that reason has nothing to do with love. But at least it gives me another shot at fucking you in the shower, on the beach, and on every inch of this place and yours before we are through.”
Damn it.
He grins again, and all I can think about is how much I want him to fuck me in his bed, my bed, and every other surface that we can come across. And I hate him for making me want him when I should still be in love with Wes.
He turns off the water that never really got warm and then hands me a towel from the rack that is just outside the shower. Our fingers brush against each other. And I can see in his eyes how much he wants to dry me off but doesn’t want to overstep his bounds. He thinks he’s pushed his luck already by washing me. And he’s probably right. I need to dry myself off and gain some control over my life again. Especially if we are going to have any sort of serious conversation instead of jumping each other again for the third time in an hour.
I take the towel and quickly dry off before wrapping it around my body. Asher does the same, and then we head back inside his home. I’m still not sure I believe him when he says this is his only place. It can’t be. He says he doesn’t lie, but I don’t imagine he stays here year-round. He uses this place when he is surfing and wants to be near the beach. Or when he’s trying to get rid of his latest one-night stand. But this can’t be where he spends most of his time. There simply isn’t enough room.
I take a seat on what he calls a couch. Although I don’t think it can be considered a couch. It’s barely held together. There are no longer any legs on the bottom, the stuffing has settled so that there is a hole in the middle, and the fabric covering it is worn and contains mostly holes.
Asher goes over to his dresser and pulls out a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt. He tosses them both to me and then pulls out another pair of boxer shorts. He drops his towel like I’m not even here and begins to put the boxer shorts on.
I look down at the clothes he just tossed to me. They would be much more comfortable to wear than my dress I came here in, and I can’t stay in this towel forever. But it just seems too intimate to be wearing his clothing.
“What? Don’t tell me you’re getting shy on me now,” Asher says, raising an eyebrow.
I stand and drop my towel to the ground, showing my naked body to him. I’m not the least bit concerned with what he thinks of me or my body. And then I put the clothes on that he tossed to me. I try not to smell his scent on them. I try not to seem affected.
Asher comes over and takes a seat next to me, not seeming the least bit concerned about why I asked him to marry him. Or what our future holds. He slings his arm over the back of the couch.
I smile. I can’t help it when his hand grazes the back of my neck.
“So, let’s hear it. I know you are dying to tell me and to get everything straightened out. I can see it in your eyes. You want to talk about us getting married,” he says.
I take a deep breath. “I do.”
We chuckle, both a bit nervous.
“Well?” he asks.
“I have to get married,” I say.
He chuckles. “I doubt that. You seem more than independent enough, and I know you don’t need a man to keep you company. And you are more than capable of making enough money on your own; therefore, you don’t need a man to take care of you either. And I know calling off the wedding must be embarrassing, but your family and friends will get over it soon enough. So, why in the world would you have to get married?”
I frown. “Fine. I don’t have to get married. But I have a proposition for you. Marry me for one year. It will help me ease the embarrassment of turning down Wes. I could say we used to date years ago and rekindled our love when I found out Wes was really an ass. The company and I could really use some good press. We’ve been struggling to get new donors, and as sexist as it is, the company will get more donations if I have a man by my side. The press thinks I’m going to die alone. They are already comparing me to my grandmother, who spent most of her life living with just her cats.”
Asher laughs. “You’re serious.”
I nod.
“You want me to marry you to save face?”
“Yes.”
