Page 47 of The Proposal
I pace back and forth across the bedroom.
It wouldn’t hurt anything for me. I’d have a beautiful wife who’s respectable and classy.But would it hurt anything for her?
I’m kind of scared to answer that. But I can answer what staying married could help … lots of things.
Maybe everything.
“This is a ridiculous question because I know you didn’t think this through. But on the off chance that you had any thoughts at all—did you think about a prenuptial agreement?” Dad asks. “Or a postnuptial one? Tell me you took some precautions.”
His insinuation cuts through me like a hot knife, and I stop in my tracks. “Excuse me?”
“You have to think about this shit. I’m sure the pussy is great, but—”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Oh, Renn.”
My blood boils as I stare out the window. “Believe it or not, there are other people in this world besides you. And all of them aren’t bad.”
“What has she done to you?” he asks, chuckling.
I ball my hand at my side.Fuck this. “I’ll call you later.”
“Renn!”
I end the call before I say things I can’t take back.
My anger grows as I replay our conversation.Prenuptial agreement. Postnuptial agreement. “I’m sure the pussy is great …”
“This is what they’ll do to her—whatmy own fatherwill do to her,” I say to the empty room. “And I can’t let that happen.”
I toss my phone on the bed and head for the shower.
I need to wash some sense into myself before I do something really stupid—like propose a fake marriage.
CHAPTER11
Blakely
“Idon’t even want to know what this is going to cost,” I say, taking in the ice cream-stained mattress.
After my bath, I gathered the sheets and pillowcases. I wasn’t sure what to do with them, so I filled the tub with hot water and body wash and added the bedding. I read somewhere that soaking stuff after it’s freshly stained helps.But the mattress? I don’t know how to clean chocolate and blood out of that.
I grab the trash can from the bathroom and start picking up the pieces of the broken lamp.
“You married Renn last night.”
Now that the shock has worn off—and some of the alcohol, thanks to the Gatorade and a breakfast sandwich Ella got somewhere—the sentence doesn’t make me quite as ill.
Memories have slowly come back to me over the last hour. We went to a show on the Strip. There’s a fuzzy recollection of roulette, a limo, maybe, and visions of a small room draped in white with a man smelling of too much cheap cologne.
Apparently, that’s where we pledged to love one another until death do us part.
I can’t help it. I grin.
It’s almost funny. It mightbefunny if it didn’t have the potential to bring so much negativity on me, Renn—probably even his dad.
My stomach twists and pulls, wondering what Renn is doing.How is he sorting this out on his end?
