Page 47 of A Win-Win Situation
"What do you want, Lucas?"
"We need to talk"—I gesture between us—"about this whole thing. How we met, why we got married, your likes and dislikes. I need to know more than just your favorite color, which, by the way, I remember is blue." I add the last part before she has the chance to ask.
Her response is blunt. "You slid into my DMs, I found you hot and we fell in love. End of story. A modern day fairytale." She's testing my patience, which is already wearing thin.
I take a deep breath and try to keep my composure as I motion for her to follow me to the living room. To my surprise, she does so without arguing. That's twice today, and if it happens a third time, I think I'll have to reward her in some way to encourage this behavior.
As she walks past me, I can't help but steal another glance at her legs, tracing the smooth lines, the gentle curve of her calf,and the delicate arch of her ankle—it's impossible not to stare. However, when I notice she's glanced back at me, raising her brow at my unintentional staring, I quickly avert my eyes.
She sits down on the far end of the sofa, as far away from me as possible, leaving a subtle scent of vanilla lingering in the air. It remains, heightening my senses and sending a tingling sensation coursing through my body.
"Before we start, let's order some food. Do you want sushi?" I propose. But as soon as the question leaves my lips, I see her wrinkling her nose and her face contorting in disgust. Sushi is clearly not on her list of favorite foods, and she doesn't hesitate to let me know.
"I hate sushi."
"Noted," I reply. "Alright, what about pizza then?" I suggest, hoping for a more favorable reaction. This time, she nods in agreement.
Perfect, pizza it is. I proceed to order one Diavola for myself and one Margherita for her.
Shifting gears, I mention, "We've also got an invitation for a brunch on Monday, courtesy of Michel Beaumont—the guy from the restaurant last night."
"I don’t like that guy. Do we have to go?" She crosses her arms over her chest like a stubborn child, and I’m getting a sense that this is her signature move.
"Yes."
Leora looks at me defiantly—her eyebrows furrow and her lips press into a thin line. "Then, what’s the story?" she asks me as I sit back on the sofa.
"Well, you already decidedhowwe met, but we haven’t decided when."
"Six months ago, you were feeling incredibly lonely around Christmas," she says with a playful smirk. "You were scrollingthrough Instagram, andBAM, you stumbled upon me, and you justhadto get to know me."
The vivid imagination of this girl. I don't even have an Instagram account, but I guess I'll have to create one for the sake of this story.
I look at her, and there's a smug smile on her face that wasn't there just a few hours ago. I have to admit, I like seeing her smile. It's unexpected, but it brightens her face in a way I hadn't noticed before, and I can't help but smile in return.
"Two months after that fateful DM," she continues, "you were so obsessed with me that you hopped on a plane to meet me."
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh, is that so?" I ask, playing along.
She nods enthusiastically. "You had it all figured out and surprised me with the largest bouquet of roses, hundreds of them." She pauses and points a finger toward me. "Although, I must admit, I'm more of a tulip girl, but for the sake of the story, I'll accept the roses."
I let out a genuine laugh at her witty comment, then decide to take our fictional narrative up a notch.
"Little did I know," I begin, with a playful glint in my eye, "that you had an even bigger surprise for me."
Leora raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh really? Do tell."
"You went down on one knee and proposed to me right in the middle of the airport."
Her eyes widen in mock surprise, and she bursts into laughter.
"You're kidding, right?"
I play along, enjoying the absurdity of our invented story, "You even serenaded me —it was incredible."
She throws her head back in laughter. "You're insane! Firstly, I would never be the one proposing, and no one would evenbelieve that. Secondly, serenading you? Come on. Thirdly, who proposes to someone they just met, for the first time, in the middle of an airport?"
I join in with her laughter, enjoying the absurdity of our made-up story. She’s right, of course—no one would ever believe that story. I wouldn’t like that either. Yet, as much as I had been against this marriage, the idea of someday proposing to someone has always been in the back of my mind. I remember the story of how my father proposed to my mother, a story I've cherished for years.
