Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
He nods, but I’m not sure it makes sense to him. Oh, the comprehension of a billionaire who doesn’t need to work.
“I’d still be in town if the Raptors stuff starts up again,” I say.
“For sure.” He pulls me in for a hug. “Whatever makes you happy, gorgeous.”
I smile against him.
“You know I don’t mean anything harmful when I tell people you’re going to be my wife, right?” he asks. “I just feel like I’ve hit the jackpot.”
“I feel that way, too.” I press a kiss to his shoulder and sit upright.
“Really?”
“Yeah, but if I’m being honest, it’s starting to overwhelm me a little bit.”
He flinches. “It is?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m feeling pressured,” I say.
“Are you saying you don’t want me talking about us to anyone?”
There’s a pain buried in his blues that breaks my heart.
“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” I say. “Look, Tate, I’ve been candid with you about not being sure about marriage. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you—”
“You don’t want to marry me?”
I sigh. “I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, you sort of did.”
I sit crisscross applesauce, facing him, trying to remain calm and in control.
“I said that I’m not sure about marriage. In general,” I say. “Not specifically to you.”
He scoots up until his back is against the headboard. “I thought we were past this.”
“No, you got past it because you ignored me.”
“What are you saying?” he asks, his jaw tensing.
I take his hand in mine. “I’m saying that I’ve been very clear about being unsure about marriage or, if I decide to do it, when that’ll happen.”
“All I want is you,” he says, brushing my hair out of my face.
“All I want is you, too. But you must understand that I don’t want to do it on your timeline.”
He drops his hands and shakes his head. “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to want to be mine.”
“I am yours. Can’t I be yours without a ring on my finger?”
“Can’t you just wear a ring and be done with it?”
I take a long, deep breath in and blow it out before I lose my cool.
“Marriage to you seems simple.” We haven’t even said I love you. “I know you said your parents didn’t have a good marriage, but you still seem to have it on a pedestal.”
He studies me, but I have no idea if what I’m saying is landing or not.
I scooch closer. “Marriage can be hard. We’ve only spent five minutes together, and we haven’t …” I pause. I’m not going to mention love in this space. Not when I’m angry and he’s not hearing me. “I think we need more time together before we discuss getting married,” I say. “Because when I think of marriage, it’s tainted with the feelings of losing my independence, of giving up control. Being told what to do and not having an equal voice in things.”
And I can’t do that again. I won’t.
He narrows his eyes.
“I’m not eager to do that again, Tate.”
“So you don’t trust me?”
“This has nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, nodding like he’s pissed. “So I waited my whole life for the one girl who I want to spend my life with, and then I get told to hang on. She might want to be with you. She might not. She might have your children. She might not.”
“Why can’t I just have you?” I ask, holding my arms out to the sides. “Why do I have to come with a piece of paper that a judge stamps?”
“Why can’t I just have you?” he asks.
“You can! Just not at warp speed!”
He looks at me like I’m out of my mind.
I don’t know if I’m tired from the week, or if I’m stressed by being hounded by this question every day. I might just be pissed that I’m dealing with feeling out of control yet again.
“I’m not saying I won’t ever want to marry you, or that I don’t want to have your children, because I actually fucking do,” I say, my voice rising. “But I want to do it on my time. I’m sick and tired of having to make my life’s decisions on someone else’s clock. If I marry you someday, I don’t want to have any lingering trauma in the back of my mind that I carry into our union. I need to heal, Tate.”
His face falls.
“I told you this from the beginning,” I say. “I told you I wanted a one-night stand so this didn’t happen. I didn’t leave you my name or number—why? So this didn’t happen.”
“Well, it happened.”
“What about you telling me you’d be patient? Are you tired of waiting?” A swell of emotion lurches up my throat. I swallow it back as best as I can, but my voice is hoarse. “Did you finally decide that I’m more trouble than I’m worth?”