“No one wipes out at the very bottom of a double black diamond,” Andrew says for the third time, bringing me my hot chocolate made with half-n-half, a liberal dollop of brandy turning it from merely decadent to wholly bacchanalian.

I own my wild streak.

“You’re criticizing me for making it ninety-five percent down a double black diamond trail?”

“That’s not how it works, Amanda. You don’t get partial credit. There’s no such thing. It’s like a partial orgasm. Who makes it through the hardest part and then falls crossing the finish line?”

Um...me.

And I’m not touching that orgasm comment.

The tone of voice he’s using isn’t critical, and as he sits down next to me, stretching a muscled arm across the back of the couch, his hand resting comfortably on my shoulder, his demeanor is friendly enough. It’s as if he’s marveling at the thought.

“I don’t understand your incredulity,” I respond, sipping the hot chocolate, imbibing the alcohol-caffeine combination like communion wine on Easter. “It happens.”

“Not to me.”

“Never?”

“No. Once you commit and make it over the biggest hurdle, the rest is easy.”

“Like proposing?” I say sweetly, batting my eyelashes, letting the dig sink in.

“Like – oh.” He cuts away, turning his head, the Christmas tree next to the roaring fire suddenly a fascinating object for his attention.

Funny how the argument ends when I point out his mistakes.

“I didn’t get hurt,” I note, sipping my chocolate, then sighing.

“It’s not like you’re Shannon,” Andrew adds in a tone of agreement.

“What does that mean?”

“My brother married the klutziest woman in Boston.” He isn’t even laughing. The statement comes out of him like he’s pointing out a fact. Like he’s giving me directions from the Aquarium to Faneuil Hall.

I open my mouth to defend my best friend because that’s what women do, right? We stand up for the weakest among us. Attack one, you attack us all.

And yet, he’s right.

Shannon is klutzy. How do I argue with the truth?

Bzzz.

Saved by his phone. Andrew scrolls through his texts with a half grin. I know that look. He thinks he won. Won what? I decide on the spot that we weren’t having an argument. Not even a heated discussion. This is what being in a lifelong relationship is all about, right?

Pacing. I have to pace myself when it comes to conflicts, big and small. Especially small. Letting him think he won this one is important. Give an inch.

Take a mile later.

“It’s Dad again,” Andrew says with that mysterious new tone of voice he’s developed. I watch him as he reads his phone, eyes drifting over the screen, hair messy from the skiing earlier. Deep brown eyes narrow as he reacts to whatever his dad said. The muscle between his jaw and ear pokes out with tension as he swallows and swipes on his phone. He blinks rapidly, but his breathing doesn’t speed up.

He’s irritated, but not angry. Annoyed, but not pissed.

I tuck away his reaction in my mental database.

Lately, I find myself watching him with a strange fascination. Openly, obviously, and without hesitation. Andrew doesn’t seem to mind. I know he knows I’m doing it, but so far, he hasn’t questioned me. If he were to ask, I couldn’t tell him why. I don’t know why.

Yet I do it, day in and day out.

“What did he say now?” I ask politely, knowing the answer.

“It’s about the wedding,” Andrew answers, giving me a look that says, Of course. “He insists we need to hold it at Farmington, like Declan’s wedding.”

“Why?”

“His PR team says it’ll get more press. All the major media outlets will station vans there, and the comparisons will generate easier headlines.”

“What does that mean?”

Andrew rolls his eyes. He reaches across my lap and grabs his abandoned coffee mug. The stretch makes his shirt hike up slightly, exposing his waistline, a thin wedge of tanned muscle coming into sight. I catalog it, like I always do these days, and wonder when this will become boring.

“Dad thinks that the press will be more invested if they can sensationalize our wedding ceremony. ‘Will they or won’t they escape?’” Andrew uses one hand to make finger quotes.

“He expects us to be in Declan and Shannon’s shadow on our wedding day?”

“That’s exactly what I said to Dad! Almost word for word. And I told him no. Hell, no.”

“What was his response?”

“That we should ask your mother.”

“My mother? Why? Your dad doesn’t defer to anyone.”

Andrew shrugs. “Ask him.”

I shudder. “No, thanks. Your dad is...well...”

“My dad is what?”

“Formidable.”

“So?”

“You’ve grown up with him. You know how to handle him. I don’t.”

“He’s just a man, Amanda.”

“That’s the problem.”

“You don’t like men?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him. James is fine. It’s just...he’s an older man.”

“He’s an old man.”

“He’s my father’s age.”

“And?” The question makes Andrew’s face morph, an expression of dawning understanding coming over him. “Your dad. Leo. Leaving and all that.”

“Yeah. Right. I guess so? I don’t know.” I’m losing my emotional footing here. This isn’t the direction I thought this conversation would take, but we’re here, right? Another part of spending so much time with someone and realizing it’s forever: you don’t solve problems with a single conversation.

In fact, there’s no such thing as a single conversation with Andrew. Life is starting to feel like one long, never-ending talk. It’s nice. It’s great, in fact.

But it’s new. Exhausting. Weird and mildly exciting. We’re fumbling to figure out who we are, together, and where life is taking us.

And it makes me discover so many new facets of myself.

Like realizing I have no idea how to relate to men my father’s age, because my father left when I was five.

“Dad’s just...Dad. He’s stubborn and thinks he controls the world. Stand for your principles. Don’t cave in to him. Once he realizes you can’t be bulldozed, he’ll respect you.”

Bzzzz.

I look over Andrew’s shoulder as he chokes on his hot chocolate.

Confirmed Farmington for June 14. Fifteen hundred guests. Sending invitation list to Gina, the text reads. “No.” Andrew’s single-syllable, flat statement is so definitive it sends panic through me. You know what’s worse than the thought of my own conflict with Andrew’s dad?

Watching Andrew and his father square off. Because that means I’m put in the middle, and if there’s one thing an only child hates, it’s being put between two people they love -- and being told to take sides.

“I’m right with you,” I assure him.

“Even if you weren’t, no.”

“Okay.”

“Dad doesn’t get to do this.”

“Absolutely not.”

“And we’re not getting married at Farmington.”

His words are granite. James’ text cuts through Andrew, the sound of their clash like a high-pitched whine inside me. The smooth simplicity of our couch-cuddling before the fire turns into loud chaos inside me, all four chambers of my heart pulling in different directions.

“Agreed,” I choke out.

Andrew takes a few deep breaths, giving me more time to look at him. This hunger to take him in continues unchecked. Even as I react to James’ insistence on controlling our wedding, manipulating the press and using our ceremony – our relationship – as a tool in Anterdec’s prominence, I find myself nodding. Absorbing.

Being.

This is daily life now. These conversations are mine. Ours. I’m becoming this – Andrew’s wife – out of love.

“And your mother’s dog is not the flower girl.”

I laugh. “Did Marie joke about that with you, too?”

“No. Dad did.”

“They’re both hilarious.”

“Dad wasn’t joking. Said the Instagram following could be strong. Wants a Pinterest board set up, too. Dog-following on social media is a market segment now.”

“Oh.”

“Declan warned me. I didn’t listen.”

“Warned you about what? People who worship dog Instagram accounts?”

“That Dad was like this.” He glares at his phone. “Dad texted Declan constantly on his honeymoon.”

“Declan talked about their honeymoon with you?” I try not to sound too eager, but Shannon hasn’t said a word about what happened in Hawaii. I’m intrigued. Shannon never keeps her cards close to her vest. She’s constitutionally incapable of not sharing, like a toddler with a lollipop they’re done licking.

The fact that neither Shannon nor Declan has said a word about their weeklong trip to Hawaii has us both confused.

Andrew gives me a funny look. “Just that Dad kept pestering him. Wouldn’t leave him alone. Kept trying to get Dec and Shannon to do press activities that bumped up Anterdec’s name.”

“On their honeymoon?” I groan.

“Yeah. At first, I thought it was because of the fiasco with us the morning after their wedding.”

Fiasco is an understatement. The head of the resort’s spa gave the newlyweds a bottle of hallucinogen-spiked wine that we drank accidentally. Me, Andrew, Josh, and Andrew’s Las Vegas driver, Geordi. We woke up wearing wedding rings.

All four of us.

Untangling the mess of who married whom was easy. But Andrew’s father went ballistic, because the Sultan of Al-Massi was offended by Andrew’s absence at a major meeting. Business before emotions.

Always.

“That seems to be your father’s sole focus these days, doesn’t it?” I sigh. “It’s all about growing Anterdec.”

“Yes. It’s his legacy.”

“We just have to be a broken record with him.”

“We?”

“Er, you.”

He gives a low laugh, but the thousand-mile stare tells me he’s troubled. “I have half a mind to call off the wedding.”

You know those moments in the movies when time stops? Records scratch, actors break the fourth wall, time freezes – that sort of thing?

Yeah. It’s happening to me now.

“Oh,” is all that comes out of me.

“I don’t want a wedding,” he says softly.

Nine thousand other worlds freeze suddenly, too. Time itself stops. All my blood halts in place. Each cell of my body pauses, waiting for orders, as my mind tries to understand what Andrew is saying. Is he calling off the engagement? The thin platinum of my ring feels like a sword being unsheathed, an accessory called to battle and ready to be wielded as a weapon.

“I just want a wife,” he adds, oblivious to the drama churning within me.

The world rights itself.

“Okay.”

He reaches for my hand, then flinches. “Amanda, your hands are ice!” His strong brow turns down, worried. Those deep brown eyes, speckled like a kaleidoscope, look at me like I’m being watched by a prism, a gemstone, a set of orbs filled with love. When he’s not in business mode, Andrew has a presence unlike any other person I’ve ever met. He is there, fully, completely focused on me. The connection runs like a current between us. It makes me feel unfinished when we’re not connected.

My blood starts pumping again. Permission granted. The longer we’re together, the more immune I find myself to the day-to-day anxiousness that comes at the beginning of a relationship. I wouldn’t call it taking Andrew for granted, but it’s close. Little things stay little and don’t take on symbolic meaning. If he forgets to tell me we’re out of milk, I don’t take it as a sign of impending relationship doom.

Normalizing daily life within the context of us is a relief.

I don’t want a big wedding ceremony. The attention, the spotlight, the crazy cacophony that comes with marrying a billionaire CEO? No way. I just want a husband. I just want HIM.

But I can’t say that. When your true love turns out to be rich, driven, and the kind of guy who already graces the covers of business magazines before he turns thirty, you’re in for a very, very public life.

I didn’t fall in love with a CEO. I fell in love with a man. Andrew would be just as appealing if he were an average guy, a software developer or a mechanic, a retail manager or a teacher. The kindness deep inside him, the way he thinks about my reactions, how he listens to my hopes and dreams and then helps me plan how to make them happen – that is who I love.

Not Mr. #1 Executive Under Thirty. Not Mr. Top Ten Young CEOs Taking on the World.

And not one of People Magazine’s nominees for Sexiest Man Alive.

(No, that hasn’t happened...yet).

He rubs my hands together and looks up at me with concerned eyes. “What are you thinking about?”

“The wedding, of course.”

You’d expect a happy smile, right? Because that’s what brides and grooms are supposed to experience when it comes to planning the most important day of their lives.

Happiness.

Instead, I get a half smile and a vacant look. “Oh?” he says. “What about it?”

“I -- ” Can I say it? Can I ask him to run off with me and just elope? Not in some big flashy way, like his brother Declan and my best friend Shannon, who used a company helicopter to flee from a thousand wedding guests in the middle of the ceremony.

But...quietly? Covertly?

A ninja elopement.

“...do?” he jokes, finishing my hanging sentence, kissing the tip of my nose.

His own words echo in my mind. I don’t want a wedding.

Just as I’m about to tell him how I feel, his phone buzzes.

“Gina,” he says apologetically, neck bending to read his screen. “She’s asking me about some cocktail party Dad’s scheduled. Hamish will be in town and Dad wants to drum up some publicity. It’ll be at his house in Weston.”

“The Weston house?” James lives most of the time in the Back Bay, and in all the time we’ve been dating, Andrew’s never taken me there. “I’ll finally get to see it.”

Andrew jerks suddenly, as if I’ve said something offensive. “What? You’ve been there.”

“No. I haven’t.”

“I’ve taken you...oh.” Hard lines form around his eyes, a defensive posture settling into his bones. “It’s not as if I’ve been keeping it from you.”

“I never said you were.”

“You’re implying it.”

“No, I’m not!” How did we get from ninja elopements to fighting about his family home?

“Then why did you point out that I’ve never taken you there?”

“Because it’s a fact. And because your father is having an event there. I was connecting two concepts and putting them together in a sentence. It’s called thinking.”

He won’t look at me, tapping on the screen. “You don’t have to go with me,” he says gruffly. “It’s in two weeks, Friday. Seven.”

A cold chill forms between my shoulder blades. “You don’t want me to go?”

“I never said that.”

“You do want me to go?”

“It’s up to you.”

Touching his arm to break the strange slide into a tense dimension of desperation feels like an act of bravery. He freezes, reacting to my olive branch like a suspicious hostage negotiator.

I’m not quite sure who, or what, is being held captive here, but it might damn well be my sense of well-being.

“I don’t want to fight. I didn’t mean anything by my comment,” I say softly, fighting my own irritation. It’s so easy to snap back, to build a wall bigger than his, to give back as much negativity as I’m getting, but that never solves anything between us.

He lets out a long breath. “I know. I’m sorry.” Reluctantly, he looks at me, a hint of shame in the curl of his mouth. Terror seizes my gut.

“What?”

“What what?”

“Why are you so reactive?”

He looks up at the ceiling, as if searching for help. Finally, he looks down at me, eyes so sad my throat tightens with grief.

“You’re right, Amanda. I have been keeping you from going there. I’ve been avoiding taking you to my parents’ house. And I’m sorry.”