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I chuckled with my hand on my belly.
“Goodness, no,” I said, wiping away a fake tear from my eye. “Blackmail? What a wretched word!”
“What do you want, Mason?” Rachel asked, her tone no-bullshite.
Ah well, maybe it was time for me to get down to business as well.
“I want you to be my wife,” I said. Voice even. Assured. Confident.
Rachel nearly spit out her beer.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” she said loudly. “Mason, I’m here for a divorce.”
My hand was back on Rachel’s knee. Patting gently as I shook my head. My hip was back against hers as I scooted in conspiratorially. Her lips were back in my vision as I watched them purse irritably.
“Come ’ere,” I said softly, leaning in close so that she could hear me, “I don’t know if you know this, but—well, of course you know this. You’re my wife. You married me.”
“Get on with it,” Rachel hissed.
“As you, my wife, knows full well, I am a very charming guy,” I explained, continuing, “A very handsome guy. Hot even, some would say. Would my wife say that, do you think?”
Rachel grumbled under her breath, “Fine.”
“Fine, what?”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “You’re charming.”
“And funny.”
“And funny.”
“And hot.”
“Goddammit, Mason—”
“And because I am so charming and so funny and so hot, I attract more than my fair share of the lovelier sex.”
Rachel scowled. “I’m well aware from this morning.”
I lifted a finger.
“Ah! And as evidenced this morning, you might also be aware that I sometimes have a difficult time saying, how shall we say, ‘Adios’ to these fine beauties come morning time.”
Rachel glanced over at me. Suspicion all over her face.
“I don’t see how I’m going to help you be a more efficient playboy, Mason,” she said.
I clicked my tongue. “I am not a playboy.”
This time Rachel did spit out her beer.
I continued, unperturbed, to say, “I am not a playboy, because I do not play. There are no games involved whatsoever. If anything I’m a businessman. A deal is settled upon. Terms clearly laid out. And I only proceed when both parties—well, let’s just say all parties since sometimes it’s more than just the two of us—have given verbal agreement.”
“You’re right,” Rachel said, patting at the beer on her knee. At the beer on my hand on her knee. “You’re not a playboy.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re a psychopath.”
