Chapter 4
Ian
Sarah stares at me for so long that I consider repeating my question. All right, it wasn’t just a question. A proposal, really, and a weightier one than “want pizza for dinner?” or “should we watch Outlander?”
“M—married?” Her expression is perfectly befuddled. Like she’s not sure whether to laugh or fall off the couch. It’s the same look she gave me the time I tried to convince her our economics professor was secretly a porn star.
I smile at the memory, which makes Sarah roll her big blue eyes and slug me in the arm. “You dork. For a second it sounded like you were serious.”
“I am serious.” I wipe the smile off my face and do my best to appear like a legitimate contender for Sarah’s hand in marriage. “It makes total sense if you think about it.”
“Marriage,” she repeats, like she’s positive we’re not talking about the same idea. “Pledging to love, honor, and cherish for the rest of our lives when we haven’t seen each other for ten years? That makes total sense to you?”
“Well, when you put it that way—”
She struggles to sit up, and I go with her, not wanting to be disrespectful.
I probably should have thought of that before proposing while naked.
The blanket slips down the slope of her breast, and my brain does a quick short-circuit at the sight of that lush, magnificent roundness tipped with a perfect pink rosebud.
Focus, Ian.
I tug the blanket up, determined to be a gentleman about this.
“You have to admit, traditional marriage isn’t very sensible,” I say. “People making a lifetime decision based on emotion or lust or whatever the hell convinces people they’re supposed to make all these impossible promises to another person. Like that’s something anyone can guarantee.”
She’s looking at me oddly, like she’s waiting for a punchline. I keep going, pretty sure I can convince her.
“More than 50 percent of traditional marriages fail because there’s no way anyone can predict something as unpredictable as human emotion,” I tell her. “But if marriage were handled more like a business proposition than some sacred, holy union—”
“Are you always this charming?” She shakes her head and plucks at the hem of the blanket. “I don’t remember you being this—this—”
“Pragmatic?”
“—nuts,” she finishes, adjusting the blanket around her breasts. “I don’t remember you being this nuts in college.”
I open my mouth to point out that I’ve changed, but I close it in a hurry. Bringing that up will only serve to point out why I’ve changed, and I’m not ready to have that conversation.
I’m trying to have a different one.
Blame it on Ryan and his adorable new baby, or maybe the look I got from my prospective boss when she said they prefer their executives to be “settled.” Either way, time’s running short.
I rake my fingers through my hair and try again.
“How many successful marriages have you witnessed?” I ask.
“I’m not talking about people our age who are caught up in the lust-fueled fairytale portion of the program.
I’m talking about couples who’ve held on for the long run.
Who’ve endured through hard times and heartbreaks and temptations and failures and can still stand to be around each other after all that. ”
She stares into my eyes for a long time. She doesn’t answer the question, but she doesn’t have to. Her parents divorced when she was two. Neither set of grandparents were still together. We’re the same, Sarah and me. Both products of a long string of broken vows.
I see it the instant her eyes shift from bewilderment to pity. It’s like someone turned the dimmer switch from romantic mood lighting to all-night study session.
“Your parents,” she says. “You’re talking about your parents.”
Ouch.
Ouch, but she’s right.
I take a few deep breaths and wonder if I should have tried a different approach to proposing marriage. If I should have done this over dinner, or at least with pants on. Emotionally charged conversations aren’t my forte, but this isn’t emotional.
This is business.
“Look, you saw how my mom and dad were together,” I tell her. “One week they’re groping each other in the commons during parents’ weekend, and the next week she’s throwing his shit out the bedroom window because she thinks he’s nailing his secretary.”
“He was nailing his secretary.”
“Or she’s writing him pushy love poems and calling him the love of her life while he’s flying off to Barbados with some bimbo from the gym,” I continue, hardly hearing Sarah anymore. I’m right back there in the turmoil of my sophomore year, reeling from the way my life was unraveling.
But it’s better now. I’ve made sure of that.
“They loved each other,” she says, then glances down at her hand clutching the blanket between her breasts. She knows the rest of the story.
“Sure, they’d kiss and make up, and the next thing you know they’re having makeup sex in the backyard the day I bring my friends home for spring break.”
Sarah shudders. “I’m still traumatized.”
“See?”
She’s back to staring at me like I’m wacko, so maybe she doesn’t remember.
Maybe she’s forgotten what it felt like to be in close proximity to such a volatile marriage.
To have that held up as a symbol of how marriages are “passionate” and “all-consuming,” and that it’s all about “forgiveness” and “fighting for each other” or some bullshit like that.
“They might have been a little dysfunctional,” Sarah says slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around her breasts. “But they loved each other. And you.”
“My point exactly,” I say. “Love-based marriages are dangerous. Messy. Destructive.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“That’s sort of my point,” I say. “Neither of us grew up with a shining example of traditional marriage being all that hot. Isn’t that a reason to consider something different? Something more tailored to us.”
I pull her back down with me, stroking a hand over the soft contours of her arm.
She stiffens for a second, then relaxes into me.
Her hair is soft against my chest, and she rests a hand on my bare hip like it belongs there.
Like it’s the most normal thing in the world for us to be lying naked together on her couch.
“Why now?” she asks, and it’s the first indication that she’s hearing me. That she doesn’t think this is some elaborate prank. “Why all of a sudden?”
“Turning thirty this week, I guess,” I admit. “We’re both getting to that age. And visiting Ryan—have you seen his new baby?”
She smiles at that. “He posted a few shots on Instagram. A girl, right?”
I nod. “Rose. She’s adorable. You always wanted a family, right?”
She bites her lip and nods. “Yes.” A self-conscious laugh slips out. “God. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
She sounds more amused than dismayed. I plant a kiss along her temple, reminding myself this is a business proposition. The fact that it feels fucking amazing is beside the point. This is about companionship. It’s about friendship with permanent perks. It’s about—
“Shane,” she says softly. “This is about Shane.”
I close my eyes for a second, not wanting this conversation derailed by grief. By memories of my dead brother or how it all happened. That’s not the conversation I want to have.
When I open my eyes again, Sarah’s still studying me. “I just think marriage makes more sense when it’s based on logic and basic compatibility,” I tell her. “We like each other, right?”
She quirks one eyebrow. “Your dick is resting on my thigh. I’d say we more than like each other.”
“And that’s my next point—we have great sex.”
A bright flush spreads from her chest all the way to her cheeks, staining them the color of a pink pearl eraser. I stroke the side of her cheek, needing to touch all that heat.
“I can’t argue with that,” she says. “But it could have been beginner’s luck.”
“This was not beginner’s luck.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, then closes it. We both know this wasn’t beginner’s luck. I don’t know what the hell it was, but it wasn’t luck.
“We’ve always had good chemistry,” she admits. “I guess I never imagined it like this, but—”
She trails off there, gliding a hand over my rib cage. I consider telling her I did imagine it. Not recently, but back when I had feelings. Back when I was young and dumb and still willing to entertain the idea of happily ever after.
I know better now.
That doesn’t mean I don’t still feel the same simmer of lust I’ve always had for Sarah. If it was a slow simmer at eighteen, it’s a hot boil now. Just because I can’t feel love doesn’t mean I don’t feel other things.
I clear my throat to keep my focus, not wanting my logic train to get derailed by the desire to have her again.
“You have to admit there are a lot of practical reasons to have a dedicated life companion,” I say. “There are tax advantages, for one, not to mention issues like health insurance and estate planning and—”
“Be still my heart!” Sarah clasps her hands over her chest dramatically. “Your technique needs work, Nolan. You’re not exactly sweeping me off my feet here.”
I take her hand in mine and stroke a thumb over her knuckle. There’s a scar between her thumb and forefinger, and I remember how she got it. It was an incident with a paring knife and an unripe avocado, and I lift a hand to plant a kiss on the site of her guacamole battle scar.
“I’m not trying to be romantic,” I tell her. “I’m trying to be practical. You know I’d take care of you.”
“I take care of myself.” Sarah’s blue eyes flash as she looks at me. “I have a great job and good friends. I bought this house all by myself and even refinanced last year to a fifteen-year mortgage. I’m totally self-sufficient, Ian.”
“I know you are.” And I love the pride in her voice, in her eyes. I’m proud of her, too. “I wasn’t talking about money or friendship, though. I’m not even just talking about sex.”
“What are you talking about, then?”