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No. I am not doing this right now. He is not going to propose to me. No.
I studiously avoid looking at it. But we both know I know what’s in it. There’s a motherfucking diamond ring in that glass.
“You’re so fucking cute when you’re angry at me for doing things for you,” he quips.
I lift half of my sandwich and take a bite.
Derek sets the glass down, not even trying to hide the smirk on his face. He knows I saw it, knows I’m pretending I didn’t. He lifts one half of his sandwich and takes a bite. I watch his face light up as he chews, then swallows, saying, “Mm. That’s delicious. Thank you, baby.” He leans over and kisses me on the lips, startling me.
I’m taking my second bite when he says, “Gonna sip your champagne?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, so we’re gonna play this game, are we? I have a few games up my sleeve, too. I think maybe after we finish our sandwiches it’ll be time to play one of them.”
Ignoring the belly dip the threat gives me, I bitchily chomp off a large bite of my sandwich.
I eat while pretending there’s no sexual energy in the room. Pretending not to notice how he watches me as he eats beside me. Doing my best, too, to not be affected by where I am. In this house. This house I thought I’d never, ever set foot in.
I’m ignoring that he’s beside me in that sexy suit, chin resting on his palm as he leans on an elbow, gazing at me like I’m his dream girl. I’ve probably got mustard and mayo on my chin.
Many daydreams plagued me during the period where I visited the listing for this house forty-six times (according to him). Fantasies of my kids playing in that yard. Dreams of having a pool put in with a fence to keep those kids safe. Now my mind drifts to thoughts of fairy lights at night outlining the yard, and me and my man fucking under the stars on a deck chair. The fairy lights blend into the next image of a two-storey Christmas tree beside the fireplace that’s directly behind me right now.
I had to stop indulging in those daydreams. Because Adam thought the house was too expensive. Too old. Too far. He had a million reasons for not buying it. He also thought it was way too much money for a starter home. I didn’t want a starter home. I wanted to move into a home after our honeymoon and stay there forever.
The dream of this place fizzled to nothing when the accident happened. A few months later, Adam’s mother told us about the accessible townhome she found in a price range we could afford now and with all the bells and whistles Adam would need as part of his rehabilitation road. And of course I put my unrealistic dreams of this house aside. It’s not like we had enough money, but it sat on the market for months and up until my life had become all about Adam’s diagnosis, I had hoped the price would drop. That something would work out. But then of course I didn’t think about it anymore. Except the day we moved into the townhome and it was so, so different from what I thought would be the place I’d put down roots.
When I get to the end of my sandwich, I lift my napkin and dab my mouth before crumpling it and dropping it on the polka dotted lunch plate. Derek’s plate is the same, but different colors. I own a dress that’s almost a perfect match of the pattern of his plate.
The previous owner of this place even left these fabulous dishes. I loved seeing the dining room styled with these plates in the real estate listing. It took me a hot minute to find the pattern. I bookmarked a set of them online but hadn’t invested in them yet.
He drinks back some of the champagne from the glass he put in front of me, grabs my face and kisses me, making sure I get some. I pull back, hop off the stool, and am about to storm off, when I’m hauled up in the air over Derek’s shoulder.
“Argh!” I protest.
He slaps my ass.
“Hey!” I shout.
“We’re going to bed. We’re christening this joint.”
“You want to wear my lunch down your back? If not, put me down.”
He lifts the champagne glass, dumps the contents into the sink and I hear the clink of the ring hitting the porcelain. He sticks his hand in the sink, so he must grab it, I’m not getting the best vantage point over his shoulder. The next thing I know, he’s climbing the stairs.
“If I throw up on your back it’ll serve you right,” I grumble.
“Serves who right for those ten or twenty images on a certain blog that I downloaded a full backup of via the Wayback Machine? All those images of bare-chested guys with half-naked women draped over their shoulders?”
My mouth opens in outrage at the accusation, but I clamp it shut and fire back, “So, it’s my fault you’re like this?”
“Absolutely. Your blog gave me all sorts of ideas.”
We’re climbing stairs now and I hold on tighter. “Clearly there’s an expectation versus reality lesson here and believe me, Derek, I’ve learned. Put me down.”
He laughs heartily as he drops me on the bed. Immediately, he reaches out and snatches my ankle and pulls me down the bed a little before he undoes my shoe buckle to get it unstrapped. He drops the shoe without dropping his gaze, which is pointed at my face. He repeats the motion with the other foot and as soon as my foot is free from the binds of the straps, he leans down and puts his lips to the top of my foot while flinging that shoe over his shoulder. It lands on the dresser with a thunk.
And I’m lying here not stopping him. Not blinking. Maybe not even breathing as I watch him toe his shoes off, shuck his blazer and undo his cufflinks, setting them on the bedside table. I see they’re black with monogramed silver letters on them.
