Page 63 of The Backup Groom
Setting my fork down, I glanced across the table at Rectum Ryan, searching for the right words to start. “Ready to hear what this is all about?”
“Bring it on,” he said. “I’m open to anything for that kind of money.”
“Okay—here’s the deal,” I said. “I’m looking for—”
“I’ll do it!” Rectum Ryan said with such enthusiasm that the tortilla chip crumb that was stuck in his beard fell to his chest, landing right underneath the mouth of the crocodile of his Lacoste logo.
I blinked twice. “But I haven’t even told you anything yet.”
“It doesn’t matter, unless it’s illegal,” he said.
“It’s not.”
“Count me in.”
I sighed. “But you need to—”
“Done deal. I’m your guy!” Rectum Ryan took another bite of his taco, talking with his mouth full. “Where do I sign?”
“Nowhere yet,” I said. “I have to explain the details to you because they’re very unorthodox. You may change your mind after you hear them.”
“I doubt it,” Rectum Ryan said, licking salsa off his fingers.
“Yeah?” I pushed my plate away. “Well, you would have to marry me and—”
“Sold!” he bellowed. “Hey—let’s order some flan to celebrate our impending nuptials.”
This guy was unbelievable. His energy was off the charts and I couldn’t help thinking that maybe he’d slammed two cans of Red Bull before he showed up.
What a difference there was between the two men.
Radio Ryan was so disgusted with my offer that he’d practically sprinted out of Starbucks to get away from me. Rectum Ryan was the complete opposite. He was ready for anything I threw his way, no questions asked. That gave me hope I was finally going to have my groom, but he still needed to know one hundred percent of the terms. Stella’s lawyer friend came up with a simple contract that would protect both of us.
I blew out a frustrated breath. “This is important. You need to take this seriously.”
“I am.” Rectum Ryan held his palms up. “Hey—a beautiful girl wants to pay me a million bucks to marry her? I would be crazy to say no. You’re the first woman who is not looking at me like I’m a piece of prime rib, plus you’ve got a butt-load of cash. You don’t seem to have a problem with how tall I am, either. The average height of a woman is five feet four. That means I’m over a foot and a half taller than most of them, sometimes much more. Ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent of women can’t handle the height difference. Especially when they hug me for the first time and realize their face is pressed up against my belly button.”
Being a visual person, I did my best to not picture that.
I continued with the terms, determined to mention all of them. “We could live separate lives. We don’t need to do things together or eat together all the time.”
“Done,” Rectum Ryan said.
“So there isn’t any misunderstanding, this would be a platonic marriage. We would sleep in separate bedrooms. No sex.”
He shrugged. “No worries. My trainer recommended I give up sex while I train for the Iron Man triathlon. The closest thing I have to intimacy is whenever I squeeze the Charmin.”
That almost made me laugh until I realized how sad it actually was.
Especially since I was pretty much in the same boat.
“Anything else?” Rectum Ryan asked.
“Yes,” I continued, “the lawyer in charge of the inheritance needs to be a guest at the wedding, to verify that we actually do get married. If it’s not legitimate, I won’t get my inheritance, which means you won’t get the million dollars. We need to have a real wedding with formal attire, rings, vows, a marriage certificate from the county, the whole enchilada.”
Rectum Ryan grinned. “It’s a good thing I love enchiladas.”
His casual attitude still baffled me. “I don’t understand how you can be so relaxed about this. It’s a big commitment with a total stranger.”
