Page 20 of Six Month Wife
“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly, “First you tip me for the happy ending, and now you want to marry me?Do you have some kinky obsession with Richard Gere and Pretty Woman? We hardly know each other.”
“Funny. But, no. This isn’t role play. Also, to be fair,” he says, mouth twitching, “I tipped you for the massage. Oh, and I'm not asking you to marry me.”
I can’t help it, I snort. “You know how to make a girl feel special.”
He clears his throat and shifts the roses in his hand. I take them and pull out a vase from under the counter.
“You're something else, you know that?”
He grins. “So I’ve heard.”
I study him for a long time. He seems serious. And not about the will, or whatever game his uncle was playing from the grave, but about wanting to get to know. I think he means it when he says he wants to see me again.
"So you're just putting this out there for transparency?"
“Yes. Mostly."
I laugh, more out of nervousness than because this is funny. Although it is funny in a weird, awkward way. If it weren't my life.
"I get how weird this sounds," he says, tone shifting. "But honestly, I'm also hoping you might consider it. I know how that sounds, but hear me out. It wouldn't just be helping me out. There would be significant financial compensation for you. We could still date, see where things go naturally.”
I nod slowly. I appreciate his honesty and his earnestness.
He runs a hand through his hair.
"Look, I know we barely know each other, and this is completely insane. But if you were open to something unconventional, a business arrangement that benefits us both, I'm open to discussing it. No pressure, and I'm interested in getting to know you either way."
My brows lift, and I give a dry little laugh. “Well, that’s the weirdest non-proposal I’ve ever gotten.”
He smiles. “Just laying my cards on the table.”
I pick up the vase and move toward the sink, mostly so I don’t have to look directly at him while my brain short-circuits.
The truth is, I could use the money. Bets isn't going to give me anymore unless I can show her that what I'm doing is working. Even if she would, I don't want to ask her for more. But I can't make it work without more cash.
The bills are stacking up. My last two supplier payments came off a credit card I wasn’t supposed to use again. I’ve been dodging texts from my old manager about coming back.
And those boxes in the storage room aren't part of a seasonal restock. They're a last-ditch wholesale deal I couldn’t afford to pass up. Except now they’re sitting there like a very expensive monument to my poor decision-making.
I’m not desperate yet, at least. But I can see it from here. And I know the end is inevitable unless I inject more money into the business to do it right.
I fill the vase with water and glance over at him.
“Purely for the sake of curiosity,” I say, carefully. “What would something like that even look like? In theory.”
His expression doesn’t shift. No smugness. No smirk. Just steady, like he’s been waiting for me to ask.
“I don’t know yet,” he admits. “It would need to be worth it for you, so we could discuss terms that make it work. Every word would have to be clearly spelled out, of course. Shooting from the hip, maybe something with a monthly payout and then a lump sum at the end—once the estate finalizes.”
I nod slowly, letting him keep talking. I’m not agreeing, listening.
“I wouldn’t want you to be put in a position where you felt stuck,” he adds. “If anything, I’d want it to be a lifeline, not a leash.”
Something in my chest tightens.
A lifeline. That’s exactly what it would be.
I straighten up, forcing my face into something unreadable.
