Chapter 22 #2
“If I’d known sooner you liked being bullied into things, I’d have sat you down with marriage papers years ago.
” He drops the fork and rocks back in his seat, running his hand over his face.
“Really… What am I doing? Gathering data. Being sure. You’re—” He swears.
“—perfect. You’ve always been—” He swears again.
“—perfect. You could have been mine years ago. Would it really kill me to be knocks on your door in the middle of the night and seduces you impulsive every once in a while?”
Did he…not just say something about marrying me?
Groaning, he shakes his head, stands. “I’m dead tired. Do we have caffeine?”
Dazed, I say, “Caffeine isn’t good for you.”
He looks at me. “Chocolate has caffeine. You eat chocolate. Alcohol isn’t good for you. You drink alcohol.”
“Coffee stains your teeth.”
“Sodas have caffeine.”
“Sodas have too much sugar.”
“There are sugar-free sodas.”
“Aspartame is bad.”
His eyes roll. “It’s only a possible carcinogen. And there are other replacement sugars that aren’t. Like stevia, which is a leaf.”
“That means nothing. So is pot.”
His eyes narrow. “We do not have caffeine, do we?”
I’m smiling again; I’m not sure why. “No, we don’t. Would you like me to add some to the shopping list?”
He hefts a sigh. “I don’t know. How often do you plan to crawl into my bed?”
I cross and uncross my ankles. Then I shrug.
Settling back into his chair, he angles himself toward me, deathly serious. “Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and alternating weekends. Also, every holiday.”
My brows rise.
“Including seasonal breaks, and summers.”
“Are you…trying to orchestrate a custody agreement for bedsharing?”
He nods. “And I think you’ll find the distribution very amicable.”
“You didn’t sleep last night.”
“That is a sacrifice I am willing to make.” Urgency and delirium spark in his eyes as he tilts himself even closer to me. “You breathe an average of seventeen times per minute when you’re sleeping.”
Oh. My. Goodness.
He’s as crazy as I am.
“Is that…healthy?” I ask, breathless, probably breathing an average of zero times per minute right now.
“Yes. I looked it up. You are the pinnacle of health.”
My heart falls all over itself. “O-oh.”
All business, he asks, “Do you have a counteroffer?”
“Uh…well… I might need some time to think about this…”
“So you think about things now? How much time did you spend thinking about what you did last night?”
“Um…” At least however long it took me to shave. On the off chance what almost happened had happened, I hadn’t wanted to live in both regret and embarrassment, you know?
“If the answer is less than a decade, I have some bad news about your need to take accountability. You can’t just waltz into a man’s room and make his bed smell like you without consequences.”
That makes sense, yes.
Lowering my head, I say, “I… You’re right. I accept my punishment.”
“Date me.”
I bristle. “What?”
“Date me. Go out with me. Be my girlfriend. Intend to marry me someday. Soon, preferably. Yesterday, even.”
“What?”
“I know I’m tired, but I swear I’m speaking English.”
My nose scrunches.
He points at it. “What is that?”
“What is what?”
He pinches my nose, tries to smooth out the wrinkles. “I’m sorry. Are you—little miss succubus—expressing disgust where it concerns properly courting the man you slept with last night?”
I cross my arms. “If I date you, there will be more stupid stories saying mean things about me.”
“But they’d at least be right about the dating part.”
I grumble, “It’s easier when it’s all lies. Mixing truth and error makes it harder to decode what’s correct.”
Damion stares at me, blinks, stands, turns, grips the top rail of his seat, and collapses back into the chair, muttering, “We still don’t have caffeine.”
No, we don’t… Maybe I should make a run into town with fair immediacy to get some.
“You said you accepted your punishment,” he mutters. “This is not accepting your punishment.”
“You turned it from something private to something very public. And why are you bringing up marriage all of a sudden?”
His weary eyes roll toward me. “You want to get married. I want to marry you. It seems rather logical, doesn’t it?”
“It seems like what your PR manager wants us to do.”
“We can literally sign the papers and tell no one. Screw PR.” Straightening, he says, “I want you, Mirabelle Peters. The end.”
I press my lips together and scan him. “You’re…very tired. This is probably lonely boy hysterics. Maybe I can set you up with someone? I think Leeann has a sweet granddaughter…”
He stares at me. He blinks his tired eyes. “Are you allergic to the idea that someone might like you for you and want you for you and be willing to do anything to prove that?”
As a matter of fact…I think I am. Because what if I settle into that feeling of being wanted and liked right before I lose it?
I’ve been doing an awful lot of hoping lately.
I’m sure to overcharge the account at this rate.
Chest tight, I say, “I’m scared.” I look down at my hands.
“What if I start liking you? What if I start liking you so much that I can’t stop, and the thought of being without you hurts me more than I can bear? ”
He takes me by the shoulders, looks me in the eye, and says, “You would make me the happiest man alive. I might throw a party in your honor, invite no one, but still spend thirty thousand dollars on fireworks.”
He is so tired.
I open my mouth.
“I’ll rent a bouncy castle.”
I close my mouth.
“Please, Mirabelle. Don’t let fear rob me of the chance I have to make you mine.”
“You…could have last night. I was…pathetic.”
He drags one hand up from my shoulder to cup my face. “No, I couldn’t have. What could have happened last night wouldn’t have come anywhere close to what I mean when I say I want to make you mine. You understand that, don’t you?”
I’d like to.
I think I’d really like to.
But all I can muster is, “May I have some time to think about it?”
Though pained, he pulls back, nods, and says, “Of course.”