Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“What about?”
“He wants things to get super serious, super fast.”
“How do you feel about that?”
I get to my feet and slowly pace the salon. So many nights I’ve walked these floors trying to work something out. A marriage. A divorce. Rumors and financial issues. Bruises and heartbreak. The list goes on and on.
If the walls could talk in this place, the stories they could tell.
“I feel awful,” I say, my heart squeezing at the look in his eyes when I left. “He’s a great guy and means nothing but the best. I wouldn’t have to pick between the bear or the man because Tate would slaughter them both for me.”
“Great answer. Wrong question.”
“Huh?”
“I asked you how you felt about him wanting to get serious, and you answered that you felt bad and he was a great guy. That wasn’t what I asked you.”
Oh. I take a deep breath. “I haven’t told him this, but I love him.”
Jamie flinches.
“I know. That’s wild coming out of this mouth,” I say, laughing sadly. “But I do. There’s nothing not to love about him. It’s crazy when I think about it because every time someone has told me they’ve fallen in love this fast, I’ve laughed at them. And now, here I am, knowing what love feels like for the first time and doing it in record time.”
“Another great answer to the wrong question.”
I spin around to face her. “What do you want me to say?”
“How. Do. You. Feel. About. Him. Wanting. To. Get. Serious?”
“You don’t have to be a dick.”
She points at me. “You’re emotional, so I’m going to let that slide.”
“Sorry,” I say, heaving a breath. “I feel …”
How do I feel?
I pace again, this time faster. I make a figure eight around two pillars on either side of the building.
“Talk it out,” she says. “That’s why you’re here. You could’ve thought quietly in your car.”
I look at her and shake my head.
“What? I’m not a trained counselor. You want my services? We’re doing things my way.”
“Okay,” I say, resolved to get to the bottom of this. “I feel fine about getting serious with him. I see myself with him for the rest of my life. I want his babies. I want his stories after work. I’ll even take his dirty laundry.”
Especially blueberry sheets.
Tears well up in the corners of my eyes as I remember that night in his bed.
“But I don’t want to get married. Not yet,” I say. “Maybe not ever. And he wants it right now, and I can’t give it to him. I feel … cursed.” I nearly spit the word out. “I don’t want to curse us, you know?”
“Did you tell him this?”
“I tried to. We both got a little hotheaded, and that never bodes well for communication.”
“No, it does not.”
“I don’t know what to do, Jamie.”
She sits back in her chair. “I might not have a degree in counseling, but I do have a cosmetology degree, and it’s basically the same thing—only I can do hair and nails.”
I laugh. God, that’s so true.
“Let’s break this down,” she says. “He wants to marry you. He doesn’t want to date, right? He wants marriage.”
“He wants me to be his wife.”
She considers this. “That’s really sweet, actually. But I know where you’re coming from, and your concerns are valid. I’m going to deduce from this that buried down deep inside that Adonis body—which I know he has because I checked him out on Social—he’s afraid of losing you. He wants you, or maybe the white picket fence thing, so much that each piece of the puzzle feels like he’s building a foundation. So, without marriage, he can’t get the whole picture.”
“But things do crumble.”
“Not when they’re built right.”
Silence fills my body as things start to make sense.
“Holy shit, Jamie. You might be right.”
“Funny that you doubt me at all,” she says, making a face. “Now, the other part of this is probably the fact that he’s a billionaire stud who has never been told no a day in his life.”
I snort.
“So your boy doesn’t know how to compromise. He’s acting like a brat. You did the right thing putting your foot down.”
I hum, lifting my chin.
“But,” she says, pointing a perfectly manicured nail my way, “you have to compromise, too. If you want this to work, that is.”
“How? Marriage is my triggering event. I. Don’t. Want. To. Get. Married.”
“But you are fine with committing to him?”
I nod.
“Then figure out a way to do that.”
“I can’t. I can’t give him what he wants.”
“Bet you can.” She winks. “You might have to think a minute, but you’ll find a solution.”
She gets up and heads into the back, leaving me alone.
How does she think I can give him what he wants if it’s something I can’t do? I groan. I can’t compromise on that. I can’t half marry him. There’s no other way of committing to him …