His nose scrunches up. “Why did you say it like that?”
“Did I not do it right?” Sheesh, I thought it was a good proposal. Did he want me to wax him poetic beforehand because I mean, I could go into detail about the way he’s really good at sneering at things he doesn’t approve of. “See, I knew I was doing something wrong.”
He shakes his head. “No, why did you say bridegroom?”
“Oh, well, that’s what you’d be.” Has he not been paying attention to the terminology in the historical romances I’ve been providing him? Bridegroom is a classic term for the hero. Duh. “You see, that’s what they used to call men who were soon to be married . . . a bridegroom. But then somewhere along the way they shortened it to groom. But if you marry me, I’d give you the great dignified pleasure of retaining the honorable title, bridegroom.”
“Don’t call me bridegroom.”
“Boss man bridegroom?” I smile brightly.
With a roll of his eyes, he pulls me to my feet and continues to hold my hand. “You don’t need to propose to me, Charlee.”
“Well, someone needs to propose to someone if we’re going to do this.”
“Is this what you want? You want to marry me?”
What a loaded question. Do I want to marry him? Before this weekend, I would have thought I was crazy, proposing to a man who sneers at me more than smiles, but I’ve seen a different side of him. A loving, caring side, a side that I immediately became addicted to. He’s protective and a fixer and that’s what he’s trying to do: fix this giant problem I have.
I always thought when I married someone, I’d marry them because they’re my soul mate, the person I can’t live without. But then again, I thought that about Chris and he chose the honeymoon over me.
Maybe marriage isn’t this grand idea of being in love. Maybe sometimes, it’s a convenient option to accomplish something. My inner, romantic self is telling me what a load of crock that statement is, but the girl who witnessed her grandma cry this morning over a wedding album, she’s agreeing.
“I mean, isn’t it what you want?”
Still holding my hand, he cups my cheek gently and says, “I want you—”
“Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to walk in on something . . .”
I snap away from Rath to find Mr. McCool standing at the threshold of Rath’s office in a black suit and black button-up shirt. His sinister gaze blazes through the both of us as he plays with the cuffs of his shirt.
“Uh, wh-what are you doing here?” Rath asks, sounding less like himself and more like a teenage boy being caught by his dad.
“Just came to see how my friend is doing.” He walks farther into the office. “Security let me up.” He takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of Rath’s desk. “Wanted to catch up.” He smiles. “Wanted to see if you made up with Bram.” He searches Rath’s desk. “Wanted to steal a Danish.” He scans us both, and I know he can see how bright red my face is. Motioning between us with two fingers he says, “What’s going on here?”
Tongue twisted, I lose my ability to form words. I want to say nothing. I want to help Rath out and let his friend know that there’s nothing at all developing between us, but the words don’t fall past my lips.
Instead, Rath lowers his hand around my waist, sending a wave of goosebumps across my limbs. He squeezes my side and stoically says, “We’re getting married.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Just like that, he’s going to announce our “engagement” to his friend without even discussing it with me? I mean, he didn’t even say yes to my proposal but now we’re engaged?
A slow smile spreads across Roark’s face as he says, “Bullshit.”
Squeezing me tighter, Rath says, “We are. Tell him, babe.”
Babe? That’s what he’s going to call me? Babe? Not something more endearing like snookums? Sweetie of my life? Sugar nips?
He’s going with babe?
Rath urges me with another squeeze of my hip and robotically I respond. “Yup. He’s my bridegroom.” I thumb toward Rath awkwardly and then pick up his hand and I rub my face against it even more awkwardly. “Just can’t wait to claim these hands as mine. So strong and . . . God, still using Aveeno? It smells like heaven.”
Roark stares at us blankly and then says, “I’m going to need to speak to my friend alone if you don’t mind, Charlee.”
“What you have to say can be said in front of her,” Rath says, being quite the gentleman as I practically make out with his hand in front of his friend. Seriously, Jennifer Aniston knows what she’s taking about.
Pausing the motorboating of his palm, I say, “You know, I have to run and get some more Danishes. Why don’t I do that and then we can all have one together? Toast the engagement.” I laugh nervously and then step away. “Always nice to see you, Mr. McCool.”
“Call him Roark,” Rath says, following closely behind me until we reach his door. Blocking me off from Roark’s prying eyes, he whispers, “Yes.”
Eyes feeling wild, I look around and say, “Yes, what?”
He grips my chin and forces me to look him in the eyes. “Yes, I will marry you, Charlee.”
Oh.
OH.
Ohhhhh . . . crap.
I nervously laugh. “How nice.” If he keeps staring at me like that, holding my chin, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it past today without motorboating his hand again. Unsure of what to do, I ask, “Do you want an engagement ring? I can pick out a big diamond for you, but it’s going to have to go on your tab.”
Hand still gripping my chin, he says, “This afternoon, we’re going ring shopping. Tonight, we’ll tell your grandma, together.”
“Oh, you know, maybe we should just—”
Before I can finish, Rath runs his hand to the back of my neck where he pulls me in close, our foreheads connecting. I suck in a sharp breath from the close proximity, his cologne making me feel dizzy, the lick of his lips making me feel like I might pass out.
“I’m giving you this one chance,” he whispers. “This one and only moment to say no. To walk away and forget I even suggested the idea. This is your out. If you don’t take it, we’re going through with this, no backing out.” Studying me deeply, his mouth mere inches from mine, he says, “What will it be, Charlee? Are you going to be my wife?”
Wife.
The way he says it, so possessively, turns me inside out, making me feel raw and vulnerable and needy. I want to ask him why? Why do this? But deep down, I want that title. I want to claim myself as Rath’s wife even though I’m not sure why. My mind is busy justifying it as a way to make my grandma happy and nothing else. This is not for my own happiness. This is for my grandma, my grandma who wants nothing more than to see me walk down the aisle and live the happily ever after she’s always dreamed of me having.
“What’s it going to be, Charlee?”
Taking a deep breath and a leap of faith, I say, “I’ll be yours.”
And for a brief second, I see a wave of relief wash through Rath’s eyes, right before he bends forward and presses the softest kiss I’ve ever felt to my cheek. Lifting back up, he keeps his hold on my cheek and jaw and says, “Noon, you and me. Got it?”