Page 31 of Sucker For You

A tidal surge yanked silt from beneath his chilled feet. He stumbled, splashed. “Uh—what?”

“Yes.” Her chin lifted through the snarls of her hair, rising even while her gaze remained on the barnacles and foam. “I’ll marry you.”

Oh.

“. . . r-right,” he stuttered eventually, after coughing against an awkward breath that caught in his throat. Choking—as if his body had braced for a different response. Which was stupid. Her agreement was transactional.

Her visa and my boat.

Why the hell did he ask, “Really?”

“Yes.” Her lips pursed. When her focus rose from the water, her eyes were lightning-bright, searing and determined. Scared, brave, meeting his stare—

And an ache squeezed not in his spasming throat, but in his heart.

He rushed to fill his own silence with assurances. Because the Monaghans didn’t do silences. Not because of a sudden, impossible desire to stroke his thumb beside her mouth until her lips softened and her brittle brightness faded, until she sighed against his palm. Not because of that.

“Great, that’s—that’s great. Obviously.”

Another nod.

He didn’t touch her. He forced himself to slow down, to exhale. “But also. . . and I hope this is obvious, too—we’ll live our own lives. We’ll only have to see each other for holidays with my family. To file taxes. Maybe for a few other legal reasons, I don’t know. It won’t be too bad. I’ll be off at sea on assignments with my new boat most of the time—did I thank you for that?—and I’m guessing you’ll need to stay in the States for a while after you get your residency card. I’ll co-sign a lease with you, anywhere you want to be in California. When I have to visit, I’ll sleep on the couch. I’ll load the dishwasher your way.”

“. . . my way?” A tiny, inquisitive dimple appeared now in her cheek. “Really?”

Wes shook off the fierceness of his relief with another smile. He crossed his arms and nodded. “You have opinions on the correct way to load plates, right? You look like you do.”

Had Isabel ever gotten to do life her way before?

Probably not with Chase.

In a Canadian government home?

Shit, definitely not.

“Yes.” This time, her answering nod swept her hair back behind her ears. She told him, “Bowls upside down. Utensils facing up. Except for knives.”

“It’ll be your house, whatever the lease says.Your way.I’ll just be couch-crashing, like I am now. I won’t ever get in the middle of you doing. . . whatever you want to do, with anyone that you—either, because. . . I mean, screw it, we can get divorced, once things stabilize. If that’s what you want,” and he immediately cursed his stupid stipulations and his even stupider tongue. “But before we get to dishwashers or divorce papers or whatever, we have to get married. And if we’re going to make this work without the authorities getting suspicious about visa fraud, we’ll need to prove we know each other. We’ll have to prove that we’re in a relationship. A legitimate one.”

“We don’t. We. . . aren’t.” It wasn’t a statement, however. It was a question.

She was asking him.

“We’ll need to manufacture evidence,” he told them both. “Evidence of a relationship.Ourrelationship.”

“How?”

“By documenting it.” He reached for his camera, and came up empty-handed. He’d left it at the bungalow. Wes mimed raising a viewfinder anyhow, twisting his palms into a square with his thumbs against his index fingers, centering Isabel within the space. He squinted against the afternoon light to check its levels on a reflex (no golden hour, just deep lavender smudges under her eyes), even while he grinned at her. “Flash.”

She didn’t return his smile. She froze.

Damn it.

He’d meant to make her laugh. Instead, he’d scared her. “Shit, sorry. But if this isn’t. . . we don’t have to—”

“I’m fine.” Her lips barely moved. No more dimple.

“There are other ways we can—”