I swallowed. Just say it. Rip the damn Band-Aid off. “Because I want to marry you.”
Silence. Then laughter—real, gut-punching laughter that bent her in half.
“You—” she gasped, pointing at me, then herself. “Me? Marry you?”
Not the reaction I hoped for. But at least she didn’t slap me.
“Is this a joke? Or are all you southern boys insane?”
“This is Missouri. Not the South,” I snapped. “And no—it’s not a joke. Just listen.”
She started to turn, but I stepped in front of her, blocking the exit.
“Abigail mentioned how good the NFL insurance was. The military’s is just as good—maybe better. If we got married, you’d have full medical coverage. You wouldn’t have to keep busting your ass to afford appointments. You could blow your cash on whatever—shoes, vodka, I don’t care.”
“Really?” she scowled, arms crossing again, pushing up her chest, which—damn—didn’t help my concentration. “You think that’s a convincing pitch?”
“You get the point,” I said, waving her off.
“We don’t like each other,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “So tell me—why the hell would you want to marry me? Because I know it’s not out of the goodness of your heart.”
I inhaled sharply, my gaze falling before I lifted it again. “Because I want to be done with the devil.”
She went still. The venom in her expression eased just a fraction.
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” I admitted. “And they’re still costing me. But I can’t let my mom and sister pay for them, too.”
She studied me. Not with pity, but curiosity. Wariness.
“Why can’t you just go back to Mommy and Daddy?” I asked. “They froze your cards, not your whole damn life.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Then neither is mine,” I shot back.
We were nose-to-nose now. A breath apart. Tension sparking between us like static in dry air.
Her voice dropped to a growl. “What’s in it for you?”
Her eyes-those stunning blue eyes—dared me to lie. Dared me to pretend I wasn’t noticing the flush climbing her throat or how her lips parted when she was mad.
“I’m trying to save myself,” I said. “And this restaurant.”
I spelled it out: extra military money, benefits for her, a car, a couch if she wanted space—but for a short while, we’d need to make it real. Live like it. Looks like it.
“People will talk,” she said. “You think anyone will believe we just fell in love and ran off to Vegas?”
“I think people believe what they want to believe,” I said, grinning as adrenaline surged in my veins—the kind I used to feel before a mission. “We just have to play the part. And it’s why we have to make them think we fell in love and act crazy about each other. That’s what fools in love do; they rush in.”
She stared at me, her chest rising and falling too fast.
“They rush in,” she echoed, half to herself. “Okay, Elvis. So, we play pretend. Do I have to live with you?”
“Last I checked, that’s what married people do.”
“You have one bed,” she said, eyes narrowing.
“You’ve slept in it before,” I said, smirking. “Shouldn’t be too hard to adjust.”
