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I'm going to hell for coveting her. And that’s nothing new. I’ve killed enemy soldiers. I’ve committed mistakes, which have cost my own men their lives. So what, if I’m adding another sin to the litany that features under my name?
"If that’s not enough, how about?—"
She holds up her hand. "Let me think… please."
I rise up to my feet, head back to the kitchen counter, and grab a jug of water. By the time I return and pour her a glass, she seems more composed. She takes a couple of sips of the water, places her glass back on the table with care, then folds her hands in her lap.
"Why?" She tips up her chin. "Why would you pay me to marry you?"
"Because I already asked you, and you haven’t replied.” I take my seat.
"So the solution is money?"
"Isn’t it?" Please say it’s not. Please say you don’t want the money. Please show me you’re not another pretty face swayed by dollar signs. Please.
She twists her lips to the side, a contemplative look about her eyes. "I'm not saying I don’t need money."
A-n-d, I rest my case. Money has an impact. It’s the sad truth.
The idealist in me, the one who enlisted in the Marines and was proud to fight for my country; the one who believed in the power of doing the right thing, that man would have said money didn’t mean shit. It was intent that mattered. It was your ability to do good, to believe in a better future, which was most important. I should have known better.
"The impact of a dollar upon the heart smiles warm red light…" I murmur.
Her forehead furrows. "Did you quote Stephen Crane?"
I blink. “Not many people would recognize that.”
She hunches her shoulders. “I remember all kinds of trivia. It’s how my mind works. It’s how I developed a love for poetry.”
I’m taken aback. “So you can match a line from any poem to the poet who wrote it?”
“Mostly,” she says in a cautious tone.
"That’s incredible.”
She looks at me with suspicion. “Are you taking the piss?”
I chuckle. “I am not.”
“And you’re not going to fire off lines from some obscure poet to test me?” Her forehead furrows.
“Why should I? You’ve already demonstrated you’re a fountain of knowledge.”
“Largely useless knowledge.” She shrugs.
I scan her features, taking in the flush on her cheeks and the strands of hair that have escaped her chignon to frame her beautiful features. “Clearly, you have a high IQ and are extremely bright. What are you doing working in a pizza parlor?” Then, I hear my words and manage not to wince. “Not that there’s anything wrong with working in a pizza parlor. But why didn’t you study further?”
“Wasn’t interested in academics. I wanted to paint but”—she looks away, then back at me— “my mother died.”
“I’m sorry.” My fingers tingle with the need to touch her. To hold her and pull her into my chest and soothe her. To take care of her. A surge of protectiveness squeezes my chest. Why do I want to kiss her lips, then cup her face and hold her close—before I carry her up to my bedroom and fuck her until she can’t walk straight? Get a grip! I shake my head, focus on what she’s saying.
“Then my father fell ill, my sister gained admission to ballet school. And I?—”
“Decided to put your ambitions on hold to take care of them.”
“I did what needed to be done, and I don’t regret it for one second,” she says fiercely.
“I know you don’t. But you want to follow your dreams.”
