This past week has been an emotional roller coaster not just because of my grandma, who refuses to tell me any information about her health, but because of the man standing in front of me, wearing a charming smile on his face—a smile I didn’t experience until this past weekend when he melted any kind of shield I’d tried to keep around my heart.
Not only did he visit me once last week, but twice. He came to my apartment concerned, full of compassion, and showed me a side of him I’d never seen before.
He held me while I cried.
He listened to me while I sobbed.
He made me laugh when I was least expecting it.
And of course, he charmed the pants right off my grandma . . . and me. Literally, when he left, she shucked her pants and said she needed a cigarette from just being around him. Is it odd to say I felt the same exact way?
Saturday night I went to bed with a huge smile on my face. I didn’t see it at first. I thought he was a robot, someone who didn’t know how to feel an ounce of emotion, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Renita said he was a nice guy, but she missed the mark. He isn’t nice, he’s amazing.
He made me feel things I haven’t felt in a really long time, or maybe ever. He made me question my sanity every time he laughed, he made me swoon when he smiled, and when he was leaving, he made me feel like I couldn’t take another breath if he didn’t kiss me right then and there.
I couldn’t stop myself from touching him, from pressing my finger to his rock-hard chest, from giving him small hints here and there that if he wanted to pull me in by the waist and ravish my mouth with his, I would let him.
But he didn’t and as he walked away, I dug deep and forced myself to breathe. To let go of the feelings coming at me full force.
That was until he walked off the elevator.
Rath gives me a quick once-over and then studies my eyes for a few breaths. “You were crying this morning.” Not a question, but a statement. “Why are you here?”
Always observant, a quality I find incredibly sexy. No one sees me like he does.
“Because I want to work. I need to get out of the apartment.” Together we walk to his office. “My grandma is slowing down more and more and it’s startling, so I needed some time away.”
“Then you can leave at noon so you can be with her.” He sets his briefcase on the floor next to his desk but doesn’t take a seat. He sits on the edge of his desk, arms crossed, and faces me.
I felt the shift in our relationship when he came over to check on me, when he pulled me onto his lap and cradled my head to his chest, stroked my back. When he stopped by on Saturday, I continued to feel the shift from business only to getting mixed up into each other’s personal lives. I thrived off the shift, loving the way he relaxed and showed an unexpected layer of depth.
Coming into the office this morning, I was nervous that shift would go back to what it used to be, but from his body language, his casual posture, his concern, I can proudly say, the shift held.
“That’s not necessary. She’ll only be sleeping at this point. I’d rather be here, helping you. I know it’s hard to understand, but I truly do love this job, and the distraction is nice. Just this morning, I caught her looking through her wedding album and crying into her handkerchief.” I get choked up myself. “I can’t be there, have the constant reminder of what’s to come and what’s not to come.”
“I can understand that.” He pushes off the desk and takes a step forward. Reaching out, he pushes a piece of hair behind my ear. “Were you crying this morning because of the album?” The touch is intimate, loving, and when I want to push my face into his hand, he pulls away, clearing his throat, almost like he’s chastising himself for reaching out.
I nod. “Yeah, just too raw.” I sigh and flippantly say, “Hell, at this point, I’d randomly marry someone just to give her what she wants before anything happens to her . . . you know?”
When I look up at him, I watch as his brow pinches together. Does the idea of randomly marrying someone not meet his approval?
He looks off to the side, deep in thought. I wish I could be inside his head, hear all his thoughts, rather than trying to guess what he’s thinking about. Turning back to me, he scratches the back of his neck and says, “Why don’t you do that? Get married?”
Wow, I was not expecting that.
“Oh, okay.” I laugh. “Yup, let me go pick out a guy from the hundreds lined up at my door. Not to mention, marrying someone is serious.”
“What if it didn’t have to be?” he asks, his eyes running wild now, as if he’s come upon a reasonable solution. “A marriage of convenience.”
Oh Rath. I chuckle and shake my head. “You know, I think you’ve been reading too many historical romances. You’ve sort of lost it, boss man romantic pants.”
“I’m serious,” he says, looking me square in the eyes, in earnest. “You can get married, wear the dress for your grandma and then later, get an annulment. At least she’ll have her moment.”
“Under false pretenses,” I argue and wonder if he’s lost it. “Plus, who on earth would sign up for that farce? She would never believe I’d marry any random person.”
“Doesn’t have to be a random person.” He pauses, his chest rising and falling faster than before. Time stretches between us as his eyes bore down on mine. It feels like ten minutes pass before he finally licks his lips and says, “Marry me.”
The room stills and only the light hum of his computer fills the silence as I try to comprehend what he just said.
Marry him?
He can’t be serious. From the shocked look on his face, I’m not the only one stunned from his suggestion.
“What?” I whisper.
Taking a deep breath, he pushes away and paces his office, one hand pushing through his hair. Finally, with his head tilted down, he glances at me and says, “Marry me.”
That’s what I thought he said, but I still can’t quite understand why he would suggest such a thing. Why he’d want to fake a marriage with me. I know he likes my grandma, but that much?
And why does he look so serious, as if he’s given this great thought, as if this is one of the wisest decisions he’s ever made?
And why does the suggestion flip my stomach in nervous but excited knots?
Marry Rath Westin. The idea is so far-fetched, so unbelievable, and yet, I know one person who would believe it, one person who would be incredibly happy over the entire prospect.
“Rath . . .”
“It would help me out too,” he says quickly. “A wife, a fiancée would assist me with a few upcoming events.”
“What upcoming events?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.
“Fundraisers,” he answers quickly. “The people with the bigger pockets have wives; they’re more receptive to donating if I show a softer side of myself.” He points at me. “That would be you.”
He does make a valid point. I’ve been to those events with Mr. Danvers and noticed how easily he racked up the donations and deals because of how entertaining his wife was. And when Rath and I were in Miami, including when speaking to female executives, having someone by his side who could maintain and execute business conversation was a definite bonus. Mind you, some probably wished I wasn’t by his side, given how close they tried to get to him. Unsurprisingly . . .