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Michael
S he said simple. If she were going to be proposed to, she said simple and sincere, so that’s what I’m going to do. A picnic is as simple and sincere as it gets.
I’m ready for her when she arrives, but she stops just outside the awning I’ve set up and stares at the table and chairs. Her hair curls over her shoulders and her shorts show off her long legs. Her blouse hugs her figure just right, making it hard for me to see anything else but her.
“This isn’t a picnic,” she says.
“Then what is it?”
“An overt display of excessive wealth. Or maybe you have a little too much time on your hands.”
I laugh. “I definitely don’t have too much time on my hands.”
In fact, I had to rearrange my schedule to make this work. And that’s also one of the main reasons I don’t have a girlfriend. I never had time for it in the past. No, I never made time. My colleagues could understand that part of it, but never my family. My mom and dad have been married for twenty-five years and my sister for five. They’re all still happy and wondering why I choose not to be.
It’s hard for them to understand that work does make me happy. But I’ve never tried it another way, and I do envy them having someone to come home to each night.
“Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the table.
She looks self-conscious as she sits at the round table. “People are staring at us.”
I glance around. “I guess. I don’t really notice anymore.”
“I wish I could be more like you. I care way too much what everyone else thinks.”
I grin at her, already having trouble keeping my hands to myself. “They’re just jealous we get champagne.”
“Champagne?” Her eyes come back to the table. “And flowers?”
I pour her a glass while she runs her finger along a petal of one of the roses. “This is a nice date.”
“Nice enough you’d consider talking to me about the rest?”
She narrows her gaze on mine. “I thought this was just a date.”
“Not for me. I’m still committed to this idea.”
She sips her champagne, then closes her eyes briefly. “Damn. This is really good.”
“Be my wife and you can have champagne every day.”
She chokes, and then laughs. “Tempting. I imagine you’re pretty used to getting your way.”
I am. “I’m not above negotiation.”
“A marriage…” She swallows, and I see she’s still having trouble with the concept. “It shouldn’t have to be a negotiation.”
“Maybe it would have worked out better for you last time if it was.”
Her lips part, hurt flashing in her eyes. Shit. I hadn’t meant that to come out the way it had.
“Brianna,” I say cautiously, “I wasn’t trying to be mean.”
“You’re right.” She downs the rest of her champagne and holds her flute out for more. “Maybe if had been thinking less with my heart and more with my head, I wouldn’t have chosen Chet.”
I wrap my fingers around her wrist to hold her hand steady as I pour. Her gaze links with mine. “Sometimes I think too much with my head. I need a little heart. I think we might make the perfect couple.”
And I find I mean it. I want this business arrangement but there’s something more there. Something drawing me to her. My gaze drops to her mouth. Hell. This is the first time I’ve been interested in a woman for more than a one-night stand.
Her lips curve, and I swear she’s checking me out just as much as I’m checking her out. She likes what she sees—I can tell. This might be the best idea I’ve had all year. And worst-case scenario, we divorce in a year and everything will go back to normal. I can say I tried, she can get her money back on her investment, and no one will be worse for the wear.
Before she can say anything else, I take her hand. Her fingers are warm, slender, and they fit perfectly in mine. “Say yes. This will work for both of us.”
“I always thought…” Her eyes stray to the flowers. “I thought if—when—I got married, it would be because of love.”
I’d never thought that—which is ridiculous, because my parents still love each other. And my sister loves her husband. I’ve had good examples. But I’ve also had bad ones. Most of the men I work with married out of convenience. Or they’re cheating on their wives. Or their wives are cheating on them.
I figured if I ever got married, it would be later in life and it would be if it suited me and my place in life at the time.
A business deal.
“It’s not forever,” I say. “It’s long enough for both of us to get what we want.”
“How long?”
“A year.”
She freezes. “A year can be a long time.”
“It can also go by in the blink of an eye. One year, one million dollars.”
Her hand flexes in mine, but I don’t let it go.
“One million…”
“Dollars,” I say. “Yes. Unless you’d like to negotiate.”
Her mouth hangs open. “I can’t believe you’re going to pay me to marry you.”
“It’s not like you won’t be doing anything. You’ll have duties.”
She snatches her hand away. “Ew.”
I laugh, and though I hadn’t been thinking sex before, I am now. I’m thinking of her long limbs wrapped around me, her voice husky, her eyes going unfocused as I pump myself into her over and over again. I’m thinking how good she’d look in my bed. Naked. Wrapped in my sheets, legs open, calling my name.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say. “I meant you’ll be required to attend functions with me. Be the dutiful wife—at least out in public. At home, you’re under no obligation to spend time with me.”
Though I find myself wishing she would. If I hadn’t been in this place, I’d be wishing for more. That she’d want to spend nights or weekends with me. But I’m smart enough and old enough to know I can’t get everything I want—though I’m pretty damn sure I could coax her into have dinner with me here and there.
“What do you think?” I ask.
She shakes her head slowly, like she doesn’t know what to think. I’m extremely good at convincing people, but I get the feeling Brianna doesn’t need much convincing. In fact, I get the feeling she’s already made up her mind.
“I think…I don’t know if I can do a marriage,” she says. “An engagement, though.”
I consider this. It might be better. A marriage means we have to get a divorce. But an engagement. It’s close enough without the rest of the mess.
“We can negotiate that, too, though I think you might be onto something. I think an engagement might be better.” I sip my champagne and then lift my eyebrows at her. “What do you think?”
“I…”
“I think the only thing holding you back is that this seems too good to be true,” I say.
“It is. That, and secretly you could be a psycho.”
“I’m not.” I grin. “Which, I know, that’s exactly what a psycho would say. But I’ll do a background check, and even better—I’ll let you talk to my mom.”
She straightens. “Your mom?”
“Yes, she’ll probably want to know if I’m engaged. She’ll want to meet you. I’m really good with parents, too. I’ll impress the pants off yours.”
She frowns. “There’s no parents. No family.” I open my mouth to question her, but she quickly holds out a hand. “Mr. Parsons, you have a deal.”