Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Because you were always with the wrong guy.”

“Or they were with the wrong woman,” she said. When she saw that he was about to argue with her, she put out a hand to stop whatever arguments he came up with. “You know I don’t believe any one person is the blame of a marriage cracking or rotting. It takes two people to work really hard and . . .” She sat down on the old ottoman, so that now she was the one looking up, the one pleading, “Frankly, I just don’t know if I’m up to it.”

“It could be fun.”

“And it could be a disaster. My kids—”

“Will get used to the idea. You can’t live your life for them, you know. This is for you.”

“I know, but . . .”

“But what?” His playful attitude seemed to shift. “Either you want to get married or you don’t.”

“Oh, sure. If it were just that simple.”

“It’s as simple as you want it to be.” He arched a dark eyebrow and she felt her heart melt. In beat-up jeans, a dark T-shirt, and an open flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, he was earthy and male, whip-smart and cocky, a cowboy type with a murky past who had appealed to her from the moment their gazes first clashed.

It had always been that way with Santana. One look and he could turn her inside out. She was a strong, no-nonsense woman who couldn’t be bullied into anything, a hard-nosed detective who had been accused more often than not of being stubborn to the point of mule-headed. She’d never been the wishy-washy sort.

Except when it came to the subject of Santana and marriage.

She shouldn’t have been so floored. She’d seen this coming for a long time; a bullet she couldn’t dodge. She didn’t know if she was ready and truth be told, she wasn’t sure she ever would be.

“Come on, Pescoli,” he said with the slightest bit of irritation beneath his cajoling. “Is it that hard to say ‘yes’?”

She shook her head. “No, that part would be easy, it’s the rest. The believing it will work out, that we’ll always love each other, that it won’t turn into something ugly where all we do is try to get even.”

“That won’t happen,” he said, and for a second she believed him. “Not with us.”

“I think that’s what everyone who stands before God and family or a justice of the peace believes.”

For a second he didn’t say anything; then he snapped the box closed and set it on a table. “Tell ya what. It’s Christmas Eve. You’ve got one week.”

“You’re giving me an ultimatum?” She couldn’t believe her ears.

“You are a brilliant detective,” he said and smiled faintly as he leaned over to stoke the fire. Not bothering with gloves, he tossed a couple of chunks of pine into already-glowing embers, then stood and dusted his hands. All the while she’d noticed the way his battered Levi’s had stretched over his buttocks, and when she realized that she’d been staring, even fantasizing, she was annoyed at herself even further.

“I’m not going to be backed into a corner and forced to make a decision.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Yeah?”

“Okay. Fine. Think of it that way, then.” He shrugged as the fire popped behind him. “I’m not going to bug you about it. In fact, I’m going to stay out of your way; I’m not coming over to your house tomorrow. You have your time with your kids alone. But on New Year’s Day, I expect to hear that you’re ready to plan a future, that you and your kids are going to move into the new house with me, or . . . you’re not. If you can’t commit, then I think we’d better take a good, hard look at what we’ve got here.”

“And?”

“And if it’s not working out, then we’d better face it, don’t you think?”

“What I think is that we have a damned good thing going and even if it’s not . . . conventional . . . or even expected, it kind of works for us. No rules. You do your thing and I do mine. Everyone’s happy.”

His look called her a liar. “Then you’re not hearing me. What I’m saying is that I want to make you my wife. I want us to be a family. We’ve had our . . . fling.” She nodded, remembering their hot affair and how it had started, purely physically. “And it matured into this”—he motioned back and forth between them with one hand—“relationship that we’ve got now.” Her throat was tight, but she couldn’t help but agree. “And you’re right, it’s been great.”

“Really great.” Not only the best sex of her life, but a feeling of belonging, of trust, of letting this man see all the complex sides to her and loving him despite his flaws.

“So, now I want to take what we’ve got to the next level. Do you?”

The room seemed to shrink, to the point that it was just the two of them alone in the universe, which was just plain ridiculous because she was still a mother. Letting her breath out slowly, she said, “It’s not about want or desire. It’s not about not having dreams of us being together forever. It’s about being practical.”