CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I fall off Ryland and roll to my back on the empty side of the bed in my apartment. My thick rose bedspread balls up in the center of my back making it uncomfortable, but I’m too exhausted to move. Ryland's found the guaranteed way to wake me up before ten on a Saturday.
Ryland slides down the bed to rest his head on a pillow rather than the half seated way he had leaned against the headboard. His position matches mine as he settles and sprawls out. With what little energy I have left, I rub my hand down his naked chest feeling every muscle along the way.
“You get much lower and we’re going to do it all over again.” Ryland’s words come in little puffs as he works to control his breathing.
I snatch my hand away and groan with a large breath blowing a piece of hair off my face. “I need until at least…” I glance at the clock next to the bed and release another groan at the eight a.m. hour. “Noon.”
He laughs as if I’m kidding and rolls to his side pulling me up against him. We stay like this until both our chests stop heaving from exertion. I tuck my head further in his underarm snuggling in to catch a few more hours of sleep.
“Would you be okay if we get married wherever we’re living, or do you want to plan a ceremony back here?”
My eyes snap open. “We’re getting married?”
“Yeah, wherever you want. We’ll need to plan it around my schedule, but you decide if we keep it small family and friends only or do the big party. Whatever you prefer.”
I groan again, but this time from discomfort. “Neither.” I’ve been knee deep in big wedding plans and I have no desire to ever go through it again.
“You don’t want the white dress and flowers. A whole day devoted to you? I thought it’s what every woman dreamed of.” He brushes back a few strands of my hair running his fingers through them.
How do I get around this without mentioning the ex-fiancé to the guy I’m currently lying in bed naked with? “I am never doing the big wedding thing.” I leave off the "again” but it lingers in the air around us.
“Well what do you want?”
“IfI ever get married,” I put a heavy emphasis on the “if” part of my statement, “it doesn’t need to be fancy. Vegas, a white dress, maybe Elvis.”
“Elvis?” he questions, nudging my side with the hand on my hip.
“Well yeah, it’s Vegas. You have to have Elvis.” I push my butt back against him in retaliation.
He squeezes my hip. “Okay, I can handle that. Marry me and I’ll take you to Vegas.”
I laugh at my joke and his quick acceptance. Like Ryland and I are really getting married in Vegas.
“I’m serious. Marry me, Marissa.”
Silence permeates the room and my bravado starts to fade. Now I’m freaked out. I roll to my back and stare at him speechless. When his expression doesn’t change and he doesn’t start laughing with me at the ridiculousness of the situation, I freak out more. “Ryland. You can’t ask me to marry you in bed… after sex!"
“Why the hell not?” He pulls his head back a fraction and for a second I worry there’s hurt in his eyes, but he’s quick to cover it up with a small grin.
My brain races and I switch between thinking he’s crazy to the radical opposite — wishing his words were true. “Anything said before, during, or after sex doesn't count.” How does he not know this rule already?
Silence stretches between us until Ryland leans up and steps out of the bed in one fluid motion. I tense, worried I’ve upset him and now he’s going to leave. Not just the room, but eventually the country. I sit up and reach a hand out to stop him, but he does it on his own. Standing next to the bed, he gets down on one knee his hands searching mine out until they rest in his.
“Okay, I’m out of bed. Now, Marissa Melrose, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” My mouth falls open and I rip a hand away from his to wrap myself up in the blankets. It doesn’t feel like a time I should be naked. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If you feel the same way, it’s an easy answer."
Easy answer? It’s the hardest question any woman answers. “Ryland, you can’t ask me to marry you while you’re naked.” I’m full of panic and it shows in my words.
Ryland’s not joking around. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t playing the first time either. I’m not ready to accept any of this yet. “Watch out, Ryland, I’ll call your bluff and make you marry me in a little white Vegas chapel with Elvis as the pastor.” I try to make light of the situation while I work through the unexpected emotions he’s put on me.
He lets go of my hands and stands up reaching for his pair of black boxers beside the bed. “Okay. I’ll be right back. Why don’t you order breakfast?"
“I could cook eggs?” I ask like me burning food can take away the awkwardness from the last few minutes.
He turns back before walking out the bedroom door. “Whatever you want, Marissa.” And then he’s gone, my main door closing behind him, but not with the loud bang I braced for.
I flop down to the mattress holding back the tears threatening to gush out. I refuse to cry like an emotional woman who can’t make up her mind. Even if it’s exactly what I am right now. Why can’t I say yes? I thumb my head with the back of my hand wishing I were someone else who hand the balls to back up my thoughts about jumping in. Maybe I should order us breakfast burritos and give myself a reminder.
