Before Him

“You’re not marrying wine, though, are you?” He winks and presses his teeth to my knuckles. The sensation resonates everywhere.

“You must think I like you.” I aim for bluster and come off more flustered as tiny aftershocks play right through my body.

“I guess I’m about to find out,” he says, suddenly dropping to one knee. “Kennedy, my gorgeous reluctant user and happy loser of fake IDs, but otherwise an all-around good girl, don’t let me lead you into the temptation of breaking more rules.”

“Laws,” I correct with a burbling giggle. Temptation might be his middle name.

“Will you do me the honour of being my wife?”

I am absolutely giddy from his silly form of flattery. It’s not the offer. It’s the actions, I guess. The way he kissed me, the way he seemed happy to leave the others. The way the pretty man looks on his knees in front of me . . .

Gulp!

“Roman, please get off your knees.” I make a show of trying to pull my hand from his, though without a great deal of effort.

“There’s a phrase I never thought I’d ever hear.” He smiles knowingly, and hot damn, I can’t bite back my own grin.

I really don’t know what to say, and I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be feeling like this. Hot and flustered, like my skin is two sizes too tight and my insides fluttery with pleasure. But I’m also a little embarrassed like I’m being too obvious. I know, I know, he’s the one kneeling, and I’m the one who’s embarrassed?

“Come on, Roman,” I begin again. “Get up. This is not gonna wash.”

“Washing in wine?” The way he looks at me feels like the lick of a tongue between my legs. “There’s an idea we can table for the honeymoon.”

“Saying we’re married isn’t going to make it true.” Sadly. At least, for the honeymoon experience. I don’t profess to know much, but I do know the girl who gets Roman into the honeymoon suite will not be disappointed. “It’s also not going to get me this glass of wine you think I need. Which, I should add, still sounds a little ominous.”

“Okay, so onto plan number two.” Straightening, he dusts his palm over the knee of his pants. That suit probably cost more than my whole wardrobe, and he’d kneel in street crud?

“I can’t wait,” I sass.

“What can I say? I’m an ideas man.” Reaching over my head, he plucks at the desert willow, causing the pink blossoms to shower my head. “The plan is . . . let’s just do it,” he says, presenting me with a tiny tubular blossom. It’s so pretty. Delicate and a creamy white, finely striated pink. “It’s what I was going to ask you anyway.”

Flower. Wine. Question. “What?”

“Fuck lost IDs and wine in wine bars.” He smiles me that smile again, and whatever he’s about to ask, my will is toast. “Let’s skip straight to the champagne.”

“Because we’re celebrating what?”

“You and me getting married.”

9

Kennedy

Present

NOT THE SAME STORY

“Jenner?” Leaning in, I give him a little shake. Slumped in the kitchen chair, his gaze appears unfocussed before he blinks heavily, seeming almost to come back from whatever dark corner his mind had wandered to.

“He proposed . . .” He sits straight very suddenly, his gaze swinging sharply my way, his next words sharper still. “Like, to marry you?”

“When in Vegas,” I offer with a shrug.

“Nope.” He folds his arms across his chest. “That did not happen. Kennedy Harper, you did not marry a stranger.”

“Suit yourself.” My job is done here.

“Girl, I can barely believe you went to Vegas and did the wild thing, never mind you went to Vegas and did the marriage thing.” The way he says marriage sounds like he’s holding it between pinched fingers and at arm’s length. “I can believe that he asked you. Just don’t ask me to believe you said yes.”

I shrug again, this time uncomfortable. I’m still the sensible one. The mom. The boss with all no-nonsense hair and attitude. I wear sneakers, not high heels, and I buy my moisturizer at CVS. I have a savings account for rainy days, I recycle like a mofo, compost, and I own a water tank. I’m in bed by ten on a weeknight, and I sleep alone. I am what I am. And I was sensible even back then.

At least, until him.

“You didn’t . . . did you?” Jenner asks, his eyes narrowed.

“What did you want me to say?”

“Oh, my God.” He suddenly presses his hands to his cheeks like he’s auditioning for the stage show of Home Alone. “What in George Michael! Whose reality is this? Because it surely isn’t yours.”

I shrug again. I’m not going to fight him on this.

“My whole world has just tilted on its axis.” Jenner is suddenly all wide eyes and raised hands. Not that he’s being overly dramatic or anything. “This is like finding out Santa Claus—”