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I choke on a laugh.No—literallychoke.
And I guess, technically, I’m choking on my own saliva, not laughter. Caught in the embarrassing and unlikely situation wherein a handsome man makes a statement—or a joke?—about marriage, then you inhale your own spit and almost die.
Maybe, I think as I hack uncontrollably,dying would be preferable to this current humiliation.
Eli is beside me in an instant, crouching inches away, Doris cradled to his chest with one arm. He reaches out to me with the other, grasping my shoulder and giving me the smallest shake. His eyes—the pure, crisp blue of Norwegian fjords, which I know because I googled Norwegian fjords once after he came in—are wide and panicked.
“Are you okay? I’m sorry. Bailey, I?—”
I cut him off with a wave of my hand, trying to wheeze out something dismissive like,I’m fine, really,orJust leave me here to die.
But my words are unintelligible, and his concern increases as he tugs me forward, then attempts to slap me on the back. All while keeping a small dog tucked protectively against his body.
Doris must have seen somethingsin her little life because she seems totally nonplussed by my near-death experience. Then again, maybe she doesn’t care because Eli’s solid presence has lulled her into feeling secure.
This situation is utterly ridiculous.Eliis ridiculous. Yet still so very, very attractive. This image would make a good inspiration for a monthly calendar. The theme being: Hot Men Saving Women from Certain Death While Holding Dogs.
I’d laugh if I weren’t still attempting to clear my own airway. But I do manage to suck in a gasping breath. Finally.
How absolutely mortifying.
Then again, the payoff for my stupid choking incident is grand. Eli’s warm hand is now sliding up and down my back in gentle strokes. I’m sure it’s meant to be comforting and it is, but his touch also ignites something fierce and hot, a sizzling burn just below my skin.
The scent of him, which if bottled up and named would be something like Viking Warrior #3, has a dizzying effect, scrambling my thoughts.
Because did Eli really say something aboutmarriage?
That can’t be right.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to … ah …”
“Make me choke on my own spit?” I wipe my eyes, which are brimming with cough-induced tears.
“Almost kill you with a marriage proposal.” Eli’s mouth kicks up on one side.
I blink at him. “You reallydidsay marriage.”
“Ah, yeah. I did.”
Eli blows out a breath, and he’s so close, I feel it brush my cheek like the softest caress. One of his hands is still warm andsolid on my back, the other holding Doris, who has gone back to sleep, her nose tucked into the front pocket of Eli’s forest green flannel shirt. The tips of his ears are pink.
“But you were joking, right?” I ask.
There’s no way this man needs help finding a fiancée. No way he’d be askingme, a person he’s had minimal interactions with. Someone he’s not even dating. My brain is whirring along, sounding like the old laptop I recently threw out, which sounded like an airplane taking off every time I turned it on.
“Yeah. But kind of no?” He gives his head the smallest shake, his smile sheepish. As I stare—because I’mtotallystaring right now—his cheeks turn the same pink as his ears. “It’s not—ugh. Not like arealmarriage.”
“Afakemarriage, then?” If my voice sounds flat, it’s because that’s how I feel. Like his words are steamrolling me into a pancake.
Are fake marriages even a thing outside of Hallmark movies and romance novels?
“I mean, it would be real on paper. But not like amarriagemarriage. With all the, you know, marriage parts.”
“Marriage parts,” I repeat dumbly.
I have been reduced to Eli’s echo. But it is impossible for me to locate any fresh words of my own. My brain tripped over this whole marriage concept, and now I’m trying to scrape myself up off the figurative sidewalk.
“So, there’s this visa issue,” he says. His hand has come to rest on my upper back, his fingertips brushing the bare skin of my neck.
