“You’ve made your point, baby, let it go,” I whispered.
A muscle jumped through Buck’s beard, he jerked up his chin, then he finished tugging me to and in the house.
He slammed the door.
And locked it.
He stalked into the house and immediately went to the cupboard where the liquor was kept.
I went to the end of the counter.
“Uh…” I didn’t really begin.
“No, babe, unh-unh.” He shook his head, pulling down the ingredients for margaritas. “Do not fight that bitch’s battle.”
“I think she’s genuinely remorseful.”
With the tequila and margarita mix down, his hands still around the bottles, he turned his gaze to me.
“And I think she’s done with puttin’ up with Knuckles’ shit, she senses some serious alone time is in her near future, her kids fuckin’ hate her, or at least Tatie does, and she needs them now. She needed them before to shit all over them when her life wasn’t goin’ as she’d planned. And she’ll need them then when she wants a shoulder to cry on. Your ex’s attorney, babe, he’s an asshole. But he’s got one thing right. There are women out there who are weak, but they don’t just latch on to men. They latch on to whoever they have in order to see them through because they don’t got the balls to do it themselves. Kristy is that kind of woman.”
“Well, you know her better than I do,” I said softly.
“Yeah, I do. Don’t be taken in by her shit. She’ll do whatever she has to do to get what she wants. And if that fails, she’ll crumble. It is not a kid’s job to take care of a parent who cannot cope with their own fuckin’ life. It’s a parent’s job to look after their goddamn kids.”
“Right,” I whispered.
He moved to the cupboard and got out a pitcher.
Since Buck didn’t drink them, apparently, I was going to enjoy a fair amount of margaritas that night.
“Worst part about that is,” he mumbled, “you just did what you had to do, and it sucked, and we come home and we gotta deal with her shit.”
“It’s okay, West.”
That brought me his attention again.
“It is not, Clara.”
“Okay,” I murmured.
Buck got down to the business of making margaritas.
He had a heavy hand with the tequila.
Then again, he always did.
“Um…since we’re kind of on the subject, though perhaps you’re not in the appropriate mood to discuss this at this juncture, so I’m fine to defer it until later…but after Nolan left, you mentioned our kid,” I noted.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Our kid?”
He looked to me. “Yeah, our kid.”
“Um…”
I had no more to say.
Buck, on the other hand, did.
“I didn’t knock you up, babe. But I’m gonna.”
What?
“You are?” I breathed.
“Yeah,” he replied casually.
“Um…”
Again, I had no more to say.
“You don’t wanna get married because the first one didn’t go too good, I understand,” he stated, standing at the freezer, filling a tumbler with ice.
Yes, a tumbler.
He came back to the pitcher he’d filled and started pouring while still talking.
“But I wanna get married. Want my ring on your finger. That doesn’t just mean shit to women, it means shit to guys. You’re gorgeous, I want you wearing my claim on you.”
I was having trouble breathing.
He walked to me, set the tumbler of margarita in front of me, then moved back toward the fridge, still speaking.
“So all I ask is you think on that. Again, you’re not down, I’ll find a way to be good with it. But I’ll say now, I’d prefer you find your way to being down.”
He got out a beer and twisted off the cap.
It sounded strangled when I queried, “Are you asking me to marry you?”
He was taking a drag from his beer.
He stopped doing that, swallowed, and said, “No. Not gonna do that shit after you sat down with your dying ex who fucked you over huge then we had a scene with my ex, who’s been fucking me over huge for years. But I’m gonna.”
“Oh…okay,” I muttered, unable to do more than that.
“I see you’re not down,” he said quietly.
And he looked disappointed.
Oh God.
I really, really loved this man.
“When you ask me, I’ll try very hard not to scream ‘yes!’ and then do cartwheels all the way down to Phoenix.”
His head ticked.
Then his lips twitched.
And finally, his eyes lit.
“But you’re right. Now isn’t the time,” I finished.
“Good we agree, babe,” he said, his voice filled with humor.
“Mm…” I hummed, my heart filled with warmth.
His humor fled and he asked gently, “You okay?”
Was I okay?
Buck was going to ask me to marry him (someday) and we were going to have a baby (or perhaps two, with him, I’d want two, but he already had two—we’d discuss that later as well).
So, yes.
I was okay.
I was very, very okay.
“Yes, I’m okay.”
“Clara, darlin’, are you okay?”
I got it then.
“He was not in a good way,” I whispered.