“When was the last time you got laid?” she asks.
“Last month.” I don’t remember her name, just that I met her in an exclusive Chicago speakeasy and she wore a red dress that left little to the imagination. Unfortunately it turned out to be false advertising. I might as well have been grinding against a dead fish for an hour—silent, unmoving, wide-eyed. A handful of times I debated whether or not to check her pulse. When it was over, she told me she had a boyfriend, grabbed her things, and got the hell out of there. “What about you?”
“Same,” she says.
“Boyfriend or hook-up?”
“Hook-up. Always a hook-up.” She runs a hand through her mussed-up mane.
“Relationships,” I huff, half-teasing. “Who has time for that?”
Sophie snickers. “Apparently not us.”
If I had a drink in my hand, I’d drink to that. Instead I continue working on her calves, inching higher by the second.
“You look beautiful tonight. I don’t think I told you that.”
“Thank you,” she says without pause. Her lashes flutter as she stares at me the way women do sometimes, mesmerized, starstruck.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” I say, bored with small talk.
“This game again?”
“It’s not a game. Just trying to know you more. In a couple of months you’ll be my wife, so …”
“I’m allergic to cantaloupe.”
“Don’t insult me with tedious trivia,” I say. “Give me something better than that. What’s your greatest fear? Who was your first love?”
“I fear nothing.” She spreads her arms wide and wears a goofy grin. “And I don’t have one.”
Bullshit.
“As per usual, you’re a terrible liar.”
“I used to be terrified of spiders when I was little,” she says. “But I grew out of that. And fine. I had a first love, but he was a jerk.”
“Aren’t they all …”
“Every last one.” She leans back on the bed, arms behind her neck, and the hem of her skirt rides up her thighs, exposing her silky soft legs.
I lie beside her, watching her, head resting on my hand. “I still don’t understand you.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“Either your eyes are lit and you’re slinging sassy one-liners my way or you’re completely shut down, and there’s nothing in between,” I say. “I want to know who you are, Sophie. The real you. Tell me, what makes you tick? What gets you going every morning? And what made you finally agree to marry me?”
“One question at a time, Tom Brokaw …”
“Just answer.”
Dragging in a breath, she says, “What makes me tick? Sunny days. Wandering the public library on a lazy Saturday morning before grabbing a coffee on my way home. The scent of warm laundry. My sister’s smile, my mother’s hugs …”
They say the best things in life are free. Clearly Sophie’s mastered that mantra. Perhaps I went about it all wrong, dumping millions of dollars into her lap when all she wanted was a basket of dryer-fresh towels on a sunny day with a side of coffee.
“What gets me going every morning?” she continues. “My alarm and my intense, irrational fear of being late for work. And why did I finally agree to marry you?”
She rolls to her side to face me.
“Because someone once told me that life is fucking short,” Sophie feeds me my own line and accents it with a slow wink that tells me tonight’s champagne is still making its rounds through her veins. “And he was right.”
“Smart man,” I say. “But that still doesn’t answer my question.”
“Does it matter? I said yes …” She sits up, gathering her hair at the nape of her neck before letting it go. The strap of her dress falls down one shoulder. “It’s warm in here. Do you think it’s warm?”
Sliding off the bed, she tiptoes across the room and adjusts the thermostat before returning to my side. The air kicks on with a steady hum, chilling the air around us.
“Sophie.” There’s an edge in my voice. I need to get her back on track. “Why did you really agree to marry me?”
She’s quiet at first, picking at a fingernail before sliding her hands beneath her thighs.
“Because you’re not what I thought you were,” she finally answers. “And because I can put a lot of good into this world with that kind of money. The positives outweighed the negatives.”
“And what were the negatives?” Other than sacrificing some pie-in-the-sky hope of finding the elusive myth of true love, I can think of none.
“The potential for complications.”
“Fortunately for you, I’m as uncomplicated as they come. And everything’s in writing. We’re both protected.”
“I’m not talking about what’s in the contract,” she says. “I’m talking about …” Sophie bites her lip, glancing down, uncharacteristically pensive. “The way you looked at me tonight … you telling me I looked beautiful … the way you touch me, so tender and careful … and your eyes keep drifting to my mouth … You want to kiss me, Trey. And part of me wants to let you because everything feels so easy with you in this moment.”