“How was dress shopping? Oh, wait! Don’t tell me, don’t tell me. Bad luck.” He covers his big brown eyes with his hands, and the gesture is both endearing and annoying. I ignore the second feeling it inflicts on my mind and focus on the first.
I pull his hands down and say, “It was successful.”
His smile moves closer to my face and just before he kisses me again, he says, “Sixty more days and you are Mrs. Edwards.”
“And you’re going to be Mr. Waters.” I smile against his lips.
He pulls back with a quick quirk of his brow, then masks it with his dashing smile. “Right, but not actually. You will actually and legally be Mrs. Edwards.” His grin deepens.
Then he kisses me again and my chin unintentionally snaps back. “What do you mean? You know I’m not taking your name.”
Emily drowns her attention in her mug of tea in my peripheral and my heart rate picks up. We’ve talked about this. I’ve established my practice. I got my doctorate as Julia Waters. I’m not going to slap a man’s name on it just for kicks and commitment.
“We’ve talked about this,” I add.
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you were serious,” he says, tossing his keys on the counter.
I’m at a loss. A frustrated, confused, nauseated loss.
“I should go.” Emily stands and quickly sets her mug in the sink and grabs her purse. She kisses my cheek and whispers, “Call me later please.”
I turn to Donavan after the apartment door clicks closed. He’s moved on from the conversation, rummaging through the refrigerator.
“Did you guys not eat?” he asks, clearly finding no satisfactory leftovers.
“We went out to eat before my dress fitting and we weren’t hungry when we came back,” I answer, mentally preparing for all the words I need to say.
He shuts the refrigerator. “Should you eat before you dress shop? Doesn’t it make you bloat?”
I slap my hand against the counter, too irritated to remain composed. “Honey, that’s a real quick way to not get laid tonight.”
“Oh, come on. That’s common sense.” He throws his hands up at me, and mycompletely understandabletemper tantrum.
“But it’s rude and completely inappropriate,” I say, and he scoffs, which makes me even more irate. “I’m allowed to eat before dress shopping, one. And two, I plan to eat on our wedding day—wouldn’t want to bust a pearl button after eating too muchfoie gras!” I emphasize the last part because who’s pretentious enough to have that liver shit at a wedding? Me, apparently, and it makes me want to sob fluently in Accidental Trophy Wife.
“You don’t even like foie gras. You said it’s fine but you won’t eat it and will stick with the pear-glazed pork chop,” he argues with an air of holier-than-thou that makes me want to light the aforementioned wedding menu on fire.
“Oh, God! I don’t mention you needing to fit into a suit, nor do I dare note if your slacks need to be let out, or your tux measurements are a full size bigger... or smaller... because I don’t fucking care! I said I love you and want to spend a life with you because I love this...” I step closer and place my palm on his chest. “This heart. Your goals and your aspirations. Your stupid attempt at jokes and your adoration for me.”
He cups my face. “I love that you love all those things about me. I appreciate it more than you know, baby.”
“But what do you love about me?” I ask.
He jerks back, burned by my words. “Everything.”
“Tell me everything.”
“Baby...”
“Don’tbabyme. It’s condescending and, honestly, fucking annoying. What do you really love about me? Except the idea of me not being bloated in a wedding dress,” I add with petty relevance.
He swallows. “You’re the most beautiful person I know.”
I wait for more. I won’t be young and beautiful forever.
Donavan must sense my unrest as he quicky adds, “Inside and out.”
A convenient cliché.I clench my jaw.
