Page 4 of The All-Inclusive

“I’m not that drunk.” My sex-addled brain scrambles to fend off his arguments. “And if we make it legal first?—”

“Secrets are poison.” He shakes his head slowly, looking tortured and hollow. “Secrets wreck lives.”

I blink.

That’shis argument?

“But—”

“Sara, I want you.” He squeezes his eyes shut and cradles my hips, shifting me off his lap. I scramble to tug down my dress and stay upright. “I’ve always wanted you,” he continues. “I’ve wanted you since marshmallows.”

Marshmallows.

He means the first day we met. Trent was the cadet colonel of our school’s Junior ROTC and ran an orientation icebreaker pairing seniors with incoming freshmen. I didn’t discover until months later that he ordered another cadet to switch spots for the privilege of building a marshmallow structure with me. We won first place and Trent got my number.

But back to this current rejection.

Reseating myself right beside him, I tug down my dress and put a hand on his bicep. “Trent?”

“Yeah?” He’s not making eye contact now. He stares at my bare thigh, which his big hand covers like he’s claiming me.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Still no eye contact. Something’s very wrong.

“Honey?” My heart starts to gallop, and not for the reasons it’s raced since I got here. “Talk to me, Trent.”

He draws in a breath and looks up. His golden eyes looktortured, but sincere. “You have no idea how badly I want you right now.”

“Uh, I might have a clue.” I glance at the damp spot I left on his pants. “I was just trying to get creative with when we’re legally married.”

That’s how it works here in Oregon. We just need the license, a ceremony of some sort, and two witnesses. Totally do-able tonight.

Since Trent isn’t speaking, I try pleading my case one more time. “If we’re secretly married a few weeks before?—”

“I can’t.” He bolts off the couch, raking both hands through his buzzcut. As Trent starts to pace, his breathing gets labored and rough. “Secrets are no way to start off a marriage.”

My gin-addled brain feels sluggish and weird. I watch the man walk back and forth in front of me, a reaction that seems so bizarre.

Something’s not adding up here.

“Um, Trent?”

“Yeah?” He keeps right on pacing.

“Did something happen with one of the strippers?” It’s a wild guess, but he freezes like I’ve accused him of spying for foreign enemies.

“Absolutely not.”

I believe him. “Okay.”

So what is it? What’s wrong?

“Honey?”

“What?”

“Could you stop pacing and talk to me?” This is starting to scare me. “I hear you, okay? We can wait another four weeks. Let’s just—fool around a little.”

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