Glenda blinks. “What’s that?”
Ian’s arm is warm and solid around me, and his voice is cheerful and bright. “Sarah and I really should get a jump on procreating,” he says. “If you don’t mind, we’re going to go scope out the buffet table to see how sturdy it is.”
Glenda’s eyes go wide, but her husband just laughs. He holds up a front paw, which Ian somehow recognizes as a cue for a high-five. He obliges, then Bart nods politely at us.
“It was great meeting you,” he says. “Have a wonderful evening.”
The second they’re gone, I turn to Ian. “I’m so sorry.”
He cocks his head to one side. “You’re sorry? What on earth for?”
“That was awkward,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean for you to have to deal with that.”
“And I’m glad you didn’t have to deal with it alone.” He smiles and drums his fingers on the front of his soap box. “That’s the beauty of being paired up. You don’t have to face the crap by yourself.”
I snort and disentangle my hair from the loofa netting. “There’s a line for the wedding vows.”
He laughs, but his expression shifts from amusement to surprise. “So you’re considering it? The marriage thing, I mean.”
“I told you I would, right?”
“Right,” he says, green eyes glimmering with interest, or maybe that’s the disco lights. “You are a woman of your word.”
“True enough.”
We stare at each other, eyes locked for a few beats. Am I seriously considering his proposal? Could we really forge a union out of friendship and shared interests and good sex, but without the love? How would that even work?
“Come on,” Ian says. “Let’s get you some food.”
I take his arm and let him lead me toward the buffet with a whole lot of unanswered questions echoing in my head.
Chapter 6
Ian
I really kinda hoped that conversation with Glenda and Bart was an anomaly. A curious case of nosy colleagues, but not the sort of thing that happens often.
An hour into our evening, I realize how wrong I was.
“Did I hear that woman right?” I ask Sarah as we step from the bar into a quiet corner next to a large potted plant. “Did she really just answer your question about frozen crab puffs by suggesting you freeze your eggs before they rot in your ovaries?”
Sarah pops one of the aforementioned crab puffs into her mouth and chews. “It was a creative segue, don’t you think?” She’s a lot less annoyed than I’d expect her to be. Frankly, I’m pissed off on her behalf.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why are your reproductive choices anyone else’s business?”
“Welcome to Womanhood volume three-point-oh,” she says, picking at another crab cake. “The post-thirty version comes with special features like an increased focus on your biological clock and director’s commentary like ‘did you know your odds of getting married after thirty are smaller than your odds of being bitten by a shark?’”
I stare at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”
“Oh, the statistic is totally made up,” she says. “But you want to know how many times someone’s said it to me?”
“How many?”
“I’ve lost count.” Sarah polishes off her last crab cake and starts in on the little onion tarts. I’ve always loved her passion for food, but watching her mouth now gives me a new appreciation for the things it can do.
But it’s her brain that’s always dazzled me most. Watching her network all evening, listening to her cheerfully navigate discussions on politics and current events has me remembering all over again how much I always loved talking with her. Talking, I swear, no nudity required.
Not that I don’t want the nudity.
