Page 63 of Bridesmaid By Chance
“Sloane?”
There’s some rummaging of bags and then she appears at my door, holding carryout in one hand and drinks in the other.
“The noon meeting is with me.” She brings the food into the office and sets it out on the coffee table—two salad bowls, some bread, and iced teas.
“What do you mean it’s with you?” I ask as she walks over to the door, shuts and locks it. Then she heads over to my desk, where she presses the button to frost my windows, giving us more privacy. “Sloane, what—” She takes my hand in hers and pulls me over to the couch where she pushes me down and then takes a seat next to me.
Turning in my direction, she says, “Thought I would have lunch with my husband.”
“This is not a good idea,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Because the door is locked and the windows are frosted and you are in here. People are going to think that we’re…doing something.”
“Please, no one is going to think that. I think everyone in the office believes you’re celibate.”
“Really?” I ask, my brow knitting.
“I honestly have no idea. I don’t really talk to anyone.”
“Then why say that?”
“You make me nervous. I just say things.”
“Not a good quality to have.” I grab my salad and start to move off the couch. “I can eat at my desk and work.”
“Wait, hold on,” she says in protest. “Have lunch with me, Hudson. Get to know me. We can play twenty questions, or…or we can talk about goals. I really don’t have any at the moment, trying to figure them out actually, but maybe you can help me?—”
“We’re not doing this, Sloane.” I stand and take my salad over to my desk, leaving her to sit alone on the couch, and a part of me feels bad, ditching her, but I also…I don’t want to know things about her. I don’t want to be sitting that close to her. I don’t want to be the one that becomes fucking attached.
I’m not worried about her.
I’m worried about me.
I’ve never had someone look at me the way that she does.
Nor have I ever had someone as persistent in wanting to know me like she does.
She’s different. She wears an air of innocence that’s addictive. And I know that if I open up to her, if I let her see a piece of me no one else has seen besides my siblings, I’ll open myself to getting hurt.
And I can’t get hurt.
Not by her.
There are too many connections between us.
She lets out a heavy sigh and says, “Why am I even wearing this?” I look up just in time to watch her pull her ring off and set it on the coffee table. My eyes narrow in on the diamond.
“Put that back on.”
“Hudson, this is stupid.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “This whole thing is stupid. You act like you want this to be real, but then you won’t even spend time with me.”
I stand from my desk and walk up to her. I bend over, pick up her ring, and then pull her up from the couch. Looking her dead in the eyes, I say, “You’re wearing your ring.”
“But what if?—”
“You’re wearing it,” I repeat, my body now thrumming with the need to claim her. “You’re my wife, and you will wear the ring I put on your finger.”
