Bargaining with the Bride (Honeybrook Love, Inc. 1)

They parked in front of a rickety old shed of a place, and before Rachael could had finished clearing her head, Garret was already out of the car and opening the door for her. It was like he was the mascot for politeness or something. Maybe that was another test.

Day One: Subject responds well to old-fashioned manners.

She inwardly rolled her eyes at herself then followed him to a booth near a shabby pool table. The place was perfect—filled with old Tiffany-style lamps and wooden floors whose cre

aking was only partially drown out by the jukebox blaring in the corner.

Even the service was good. Within seconds of sitting down, an elderly waitress with bright magenta lipstick sauntered over and asked for their drink order. Though there was no smoking allowed, she seemed like the kind of woman who would have a Misty tucked perpetually between her lips if it was up to her.

"So, wife, what'll it be? What's your drink of choice?" He pulled the small notebook and pen from his jeans pocket, sat it in front of him, and then flipped open to a clean page.

He had to be kidding.

Nope, he just sat there, gazing between her and his precious notebook, poised to observe her like some kind of research monkey.

"I'll have a Sex on the Beach, please." The drink was delicious, but never comfortable to order and the waitress’s response certainly didn’t help to relax her.

"Wouldn't we all, honey?" The waitress' chuckle quickly evolved into a cough. Rachael seriously needed to find a new favorite drink.

"I'll have a Jack and coke, please," Garret nodded to the waitress and she tottered away, her blue hair bouncing as she went.

"Are you seriously going to record everything I do? Why didn't you just bring a damn video camera?" She sighed. This whole thing was ill-advised from the start, but now it was getting absurd.

"Well, I need..." He stopped. His gaze bore into hers for a long minute before he began again, "We need to convince your family. But you're right. Let's start small. How did Lance propose?"

"Oh." It totally had not occurred to her that she'd have to confess all the torturous details of her relationship to her boss. “Why do you need to know all that?”

“Convincing background information. How would I then propose, etcetera.”

She bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Makes sense.” Then, taking a deep breath, she started, "Well, it was kind of...” She couldn’t. It was too embarrassing. Maybe she might have told him when he was safe, office Garret. But this? In his sexy clothes and with that stubble, that chiseled jawline… “It’s not important. Let’s just start fresh.” Mercifully, the waitress reappeared and sat a drink in front of her.

"Don't you think it'll come up?"

"Maybe not. If it does, I'll handle it." She sucked hard on her straw, and then nearly choked. Apparently all the alcohol in her drink had gone straight to the bottom.

"Let's be serious, okay? No judgment. If it's, you know,” he leaned in and whispered, “kinky or something, you can tell me.”

Suddenly, she wasn’t sure if her head was spinning because of her too-strong drink or because her normally stodgy boss had just said the word ‘kinky.’ Or maybe it was because the way the word sounded in his deep voice felt…

"Please. Stop.” She pinched her nose between thumb and forefinger. “How do you think proposals happen?"

“I don't know, but I also don't know why it would be a secret unless it involved gold anal beads along with your ring." He laughed, but her cheeks burned at the implication.

"Definitely not.” She slurped on her straw. He clearly wasn’t going to let up. Maybe if she said it quickly, like pulling off a Band-Aid, the mortification wouldn’t sear her as deeply. With a deep breath, she said, “I’m just embarrassed because he didn't propose. I did."

Go ahead and make fun of me. I don't care. My parents already laughed hysterically when I told them.

"You proposed?" He raised his eyebrows, finally taking a sip of his own drink.

The waitress stopped off, momentarily interrupting their conversation so that they could place their orders. Perfect, just enough time to let Rachael stew in her own, pitiful juices.

When the old woman finally plodded away, Rachael said, “Yeah. I popped the question.”

"Why? Because he was sick? Did you want the insurance money or something?" There wasn't judgment in his tone. That was a first. Even her own parents had asked if she was trying to get something out of it. Maybe that’s what had made the irony of the situation that much more bitter.

"I was sort of…” She paused, sipped what she now realized was the dregs of her cocktail. “Trapped. I couldn't leave him, sick and alone, and if I didn’t commit, then I was stuck with a mountain of medical bills he couldn’t pay because he couldn’t work. His parents had cut him off. I thought that getting married would at least save me financially if it couldn’t save me emotionally."

God, she must have sounded like some kind of Oprah special to him. It wasn't like her, really, to get all strung out about life. She'd been dealt a lot of short straws already; this whole thing was just another pothole in the road.