Elizabeth argued for hours. Oh, how she argued.

Blinking away the prickle of tears—because how could she not cry at so much kindness?—she told him her circumstances didn’t require such a gallant gesture. She told him she’d find another way to pay for her medical expenses. She told him he’d meet another woman he wanted to marry and regret either the illegality of bigamy or the hassle of divorce.

They stayed in that garage long enough for the overhead light to switch off. But even in the dark, she could see the very real distress in his eyes when he mentioned her biopsy, the certainty with which he’d told her he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t help her this way.

So despite all her arguments, he didn’t budge. Instead, he led them into the warmth of the kitchen, fiddled with something in his microwave, and upped the ante.

“The only logical path forward is for you to marry me.” After handing her a steaming mug of way-too-expensive hot chocolate—her favorite brand, damn him—he leaned back against the counter. “And we might as well save some living expenses in the meantime. Why don’t you move in?”

She promptly burned her tongue on the cocoa. “What?”

“We’ve been roommates before.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, completely calm. “I know we can live together comfortably.”

She put down the mug and gaped at him. “We were twenty, James. I’m forty-seven now. Set in my ways.”

“Maybe so, but I’m flexible,” he said with a shrug.

That was a damned lie.

Still, he kept looking at her, a virtual wall of a man. Maybe he wasn’t overly tall, but he was strong and built solid, with enough extra heft around the middle to make her feel sheltered in his presence. In her mind, he’d always taken up more space and oxygen than was justified by his size, just through sheer, quiet force of personality.

His appearance, its subtle handsomeness and flagrant maleness, didn’t help either. Those navy-blue eyes were magnetic. Always had been, always would be. That thick, silver-touched russet hair, ruffled from the winter wind, made her want to smooth it with gentle fingers. And that new, post-divorce beard, the way it outlined his jaw and contoured his cheeks, only made looking away from him more difficult.

She knew that squinty, challenging expression, the way his thick brows drew together. She knew that low, measured tone. He wouldn’t give up, on her or on his cockamamie plan.

He’d even pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, a telltale sign he meant business.

And in the end, they both understood she didn’t have a choice. Not really. Even though the prospect of a loveless marriage with James made her ache in ways she didn’t care to consider further.

“Please, Elizabeth.” His voice had turned coaxing, liquid and sweet as her cocoa. “Please marry me.”

She took a long sip of that cocoa for fortitude before she surrendered.

“Okay.” Another sip, and then she met that intent blue gaze, now flaring with victory. “Okay, James. I’ll marry you.”

He sagged against the counter and let out a slow breath, his arms finally uncrossing. Then he smiled at her, his cheeks creasing beneath that way-too-attractive beard, and despite her worry, she couldn’t help smiling back.

The relief of the decision, however hard-fought, dizzied her.

She wasn’t alone in her battles. Not anymore. Not as long as they were married.

Praise God, soon she’d have good health insurance. The moment her coverage became effective, she could get her lump biopsied and afford any necessary treatment. She could schedule her yearly skin exam at the dermatologist. Hell, she could see any doctor she needed to for any of a thousand reasons.

And James would be her husband. Hers. After almost thirty years.

But only for a brief stretch of time.

She didn’t realize she was crying again until he brushed away her tears with gentle, careful sweeps of his thumbs. And when he tugged her up from her seat and into his arms, she didn’t resist.

Why did this one man always smell like home to her?

Why did his arms around her always feel like a fortress?

She pulled away after a few seconds to blow her nose and recover herself, but it was too late. The sudden, unexpected release of weeks of tension had weakened her, and so had that devastating smile of his and the safe clasp of his embrace.

She had no more resistance left. She was accepting the inevitable, much as it might hurt in the end.

So after only a few more minutes of discussion and persuasion, she lowered her chin to the kitchen table and closed her eyes. “Fine. I’ll move in with you.”

“Good,” he said, patting away the last wetness on her face with a soft cotton dishcloth.

Within seconds, he’d planned how they’d pack up any necessities from her house and transfer them to his before their wedding ceremony. Talked about using his truck and the help of his construction buddies. Worked out all the details with obvious satisfaction in that deep voice.

But before he could get too smug, she insisted on a few addenda.

“First, we need a prenup.” She sat up straight. “Not to protect me. To protect you and reassure your kids. I’m not a rightful beneficiary of any of your possessions or money, and I want that clear to everyone involved.”

That prenup might also provide her with a reminder, if she needed one, of the precise terms of their marriage. The document’s strict bounds would confine her. Corral any wayward emotions.

He shook his head. “You won’t take advantage of me, Elizabeth. Everyone knows that. And if they don’t, they should.”

“We’re doing it,” she told him. “Or else the deal is off.”

Despite his narrowed-eye death stare, she didn’t falter or flinch.

He sighed. “Fine. We’ll get a prenup.”

“Second, we need to make a list of all our expected household expenses and divvy them up fairly.” Fishing in her purse, she located her phone. “Let’s do that over pizza. I’m paying.”

He took the cell from her hand and gave his own credit card number for the order, despite her protestations. A fitting start to the expense-allotment discussion, which—to her complete lack of surprise—didn’t go smoothly either. Even Carmelo’s truly excellent chicken parmesan pizza couldn’t make the stubborn man across the table see reason.

“If you cook for us, we can consider that ample repayment for your portion of the utilities and all the other bills.” James set aside his cleared plate and patted the gentle mound of his stomach. “We both know how much I love your food.”

She glared at him as she removed the blueberry cheesecake from his refrigerator. “No. Absolutely not. I’ll pay an equal share.”

But after a few more rounds of argument and a couple wedges of the cheesecake, she found herself agreeing to a compromise. She’d get a discount on the bills in exchange for cooking, largely because he told her, his mouth set in a mulish line, that he wouldn’t eat her food otherwise. And that was unacceptable to her.

They tackled her third and final addendum over decaf coffee. By then, he’d stripped off his sweatshirt and was—rather distractingly—only wearing a worn, thin t-shirt and jeans that molded faithfully to his strong thighs.

It was unfair, to say the least.

“We need to discuss what we should do if we find ourselves interested in other people.” She looked down at the sturdy blue mug in her hand, trying not to picture the situation. “While we’re still married, I mean.”

A long silence stretched between them, and he didn’t say a word. Finally, she raised her gaze to him again.

And for some reason, he looked…odd. Agitated, almost. Above his golden-brown beard, his cheeks had flushed, and those crossed arms had tightened until she could see his biceps pulling at his tee.

She didn’t understand. Was he embarrassed at the awkwardness of the question? Or was the thought of another romantic relationship that repugnant to him after the slow-motion train wreck of his marriage?

His blue eyes rested on her, sharp and intent. “Do you think it’s likely you’ll want to date another man?”

“Of course not.” She waved a hand. “I don’t have the energy for dating. And if I haven’t found someone I loved enough to marry in forty-seven years, what’s the likelihood I’m going to locate one this year?”

“You’re marrying me,” he pointed out, his shoulders dropping a fraction.

“That’s different, and we both know it.”

He made a kind of humming sound in response.

“But we should come up with a plan in case you meet someone.” And God, why did that thought send a lightning bolt of pain through her chest?

He dismissed her statement with a shrug. “Nah. I’m good.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue more. Or maybe she didn’t want to argue more, not about that. “Fine. Forget about it.”

Then, to her shock, he added one final addendum of his own.

“We can divorce once you’re eligible for individual insurance again.” He reached out to clasp her hand, a gesture he seemed to make all the time now. As always, it felt warm and comforting in a way that discomfited her. “But we don’t have to. I want that clear. As far as I’m concerned, we can stay married forever.”

Why? Why would he make that offer?

She laughed through the ache and the longing. “I’m unfit for human company before I’ve had at least two cups of tea in the morning. When I cook or bake, I manage to dirty every dish, measuring cup, and utensil available. And I like to take nightly hour-long baths that use up all the hot water in the house. You don’t want me as your permanent wife. Trust me.”

He didn’t laugh in response. “I do trust you. That’s my point.”

Oh, God. The sweetness of that stung.

“I don’t see myself marrying anyone else, Elizabeth. Not soon, not ever. I also think we’d make a good team. And as far as your baths, my hot water heater has way more capacity than yours.” He raised an eyebrow. “As you’ll soon find out, there are benefits to marrying someone in the building trades. And you don’t have to give up those benefits if you don’t want to. Again: not soon, not ever.”

When she pursed her lips and looked down, he directed her eyes back to his with a gentle finger under her chin. “Just promise me you’ll think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

So in the end, she agreed to that too.

If tonight’s discussion was a preview of their married life, she was pretty sure she’d never win an argument with James. Not a single one. Which should be a terrifying thought for someone who’d always prized her freedom, her ability to make whatever decisions she thought best.

And even through her haze of relief, she was unnerved.

Not because he might trample on her independence—but because marriage to him already felt like so much more than a convenience.

The wedding should have ended with a perfunctory embrace.

The courthouse judge, his face expectant and wreathed with a smile, had pronounced them husband and wife and invited James to kiss Elizabeth. It was the standard end to a standard civil ceremony. The judge didn’t understand the situation, of course.

This wasn’t a marriage born out of love, but necessity.

They’d planned it in less than a week and invited only a few local friends and James’s kids as witnesses. Other than the bouquet of lace-wrapped pink roses James had unexpectedly produced for her that morning, there were no flowers. No bridesmaids or groomsmen. She was wearing a knee-length cream dress purchased for her niece’s christening twelve years before, while James’s suit pulled a bit at his shoulders and middle. God only knew how long he’d owned it. The rings they’d just donned were thick and gold but completely generic, despite his repeated offers to find other options.

So at the end of the ceremony, she expected a peck on the cheek. Maybe even a brief buss on her lips, for the sake of anyone who might question the wisdom or validity of the marriage.

Instead, James cradled her face in his warm, rough hands with deliberate care. His thumb stroked her cheek in a gentle arc. And he lowered his mouth to hers as her brain fogged with the scent of sunshine and clean cotton. James’s scent.

Then he was kissing her.

Not a peck. Not a buss. A kiss. A tender, exploratory greeting of a kiss.

His beard brushed against her cheeks as he courted every corner, every curve of her mouth. He took his time, and she responded without thinking to the dizzying pleasure of it.

When her mouth opened, the kiss transformed. Still slow, still careful. But no longer innocent or friendly, not with her knowledge of how he tasted and the hoarse rumble in his chest when his tongue met hers for the first time.

Her hands, which had come to rest against that broad barrel of a chest, curled in on themselves. So did her toes.

But somewhere inside, a brittle, hidden part of her unfurled like a fern under his touch. A part she’d deprived of oxygen and nourishment for almost three decades, shoving it deep when it threatened her friendships and her self-respect. Coiling it tight whenever she caught herself imagining things that didn’t exist, possibilities that would never come to fruition.

You cause me bitterness and grief, and I reject both, she’d told it.

Over the last hellish couple of years, she’d forgotten it existed entirely.

Deep-rooted, though, it had apparently remained. Waiting. Dormant. Hopeful.

James’s thick arm encircled her waist and hitched her against his body, and he was surrounding her with heat and strength. If she teetered, he’d keep her upright. If she wanted to hide, she could burrow her face into that delicious-smelling neck and trust he’d shield her. Her secrets. Her vulnerabilities.

Oh, the relief of it. Her eyes prickled, even as her limbs grew warm and languid.

Then he raised his head, arm still tight around her waist, and she dimly registered the hush of a half-dozen stunned wedding guests. All people who knew the situation. Who knew this wasn’t a real marriage, blindingly sweet kiss notwithstanding.

No doubt they were wondering what exactly they’d just witnessed.

Funny. So was she.