“It’s not about getting it right,” I say, stroking her cheek. “It’s about finding some solace in getting the thoughts off your chest and out of your head. Maybe finding the silence you were searching for underwater.”
“Can’t I just keep talking to you? Maybe we call it bath-time confessionals.”
I chuckle. “Of course, any time,” I reassure her. “But just so we’re clear, I have my own bag of problems I should probably get therapy for, so I’d maybe keep me as the backup.”
“Maybe we’ll get a two-for-one deal if we go together?” she quips, but I know she’s deflecting. She’s a master at using humorous self-deprecation and pasting on big smiles to create the picture of wellness.
“Maybe. But seriously, I’d really like you to think about it. I spoke with Marco today, and he mentioned he’s booked in to talk to someone—maybe you can speak with him about it, get their details too?”
“I’ll think about it,” she agrees. Just then, her stomach rumbles.
“Come on. Let’s get some food into you,” I say, rising from the bath and lifting her up with me, keeping her back to my front. I glide my hands down the sides of her body—to wipe off the excess water,I tell myself—reveling in the way her curves, slick with bath oil, feel under my touch. Her breath hitches, and she pushes her ass back into me, but we’re not crossing that line. Not tonight.I reach over and grab the towel from the shelf above, wrapping it around her before spinning her around to face me.
She looks up at me, her eyes shining with sadness. “Tell me something good, Raf.”
It may have been Seb who planted the seed and AJ who fertilized it, but it’s the deep pools of green seeking me for a fix that provide the only answer.
“I’ll marry you.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
He’s Lost His Damn Mind
Chiara
“And you claimI’m not cut out to be a comedian,” I say. “If this is your idea of a joke, your timing is terrible.”
“Think about it,” he argues. “If you’re legally married to me, you aren’t legally allowed to marry anyone else, meaning the arranged marriage can’t go ahead.”
I put my hand to his forehead. “Are you running a fever?”
“No. But I really need to get out of these wet clothes,” he says, removing his shirt and trousers but leaving his boxer briefs on and grabbing another towel to wrap around his waist.
“So modest. You know I’ve seen everything you’ve got going on down there,” I say, waving a hand around his lower half.
“I’m well aware.”
He fishes his phone out of his discarded jacket.
“What’s your full name as it appears on your birth certificate?”
“Why?”
“I need it.”
“For what?”
“For the marriage license,” he says casually. “I’m applying for a virtual one, which will come through immediately. Then I’ll text a clerk at the courthouse to make sure we get priority tomorrow. We’ll get this done quickly.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold your horses, Raffy baby. I didn’t say yes. Also, can I just point out that if there were an Olympic event for the most anti-climactic marriage proposal, you’d win gold.”
“We both know if I wanted you to climax, you’d be a whimpering mess. But we’re getting off task. Full name please.”
“Tell me yours first?”
“Rafael Patrick Princi.”
“Strong. I like it.”
