Page 2 of That Moment
I take another sip and almost choke.
Prenup. God, Adrienne.
“Everything okay?” Keegan asks, his voice cautious, like he can sense the way my soul just bolted for the emergency exit.
“Perfect,” I chirp, teeth clenched in what I pray looks like a grin and not a grimace.
He smiles back, nervous as hell, and I want to scream. I should be flattered. This is what normal women want. Love, a ring, a man who at least tries to text you when he lands in Cincinnati.
But I don’t feel normal. I feel like a fraud, cataloguing exit strategies while a man who’s actually pretty damn amazing fumbles with his coat pocket and trips over his words. I take another drink of the cab and try to pull my focus back to the food, reminding myself that my current lack of sleep from work is contributing to my anxiety.
Maybe it won’t be a ring. Maybe it’s earrings. Earrings are harmless. Earrings don’t require you to restructure your life or Google how to be an athlete’s wife.
And because my brain is an asshole, it tosses in another image. One of broad shoulders bent under a Chevy hood, grease-stained cowboy hat tipped low, that slow smile Scotty only flashes me when he thinks no one’s looking. It’s flirty and innocent at the same time, usually followed by a wink that makes little butterflies appear in my stomach. And the way he always walks me to my car without making it a thing. I blink hard, forcing the thought away.
Wrong man, wrong daydream, wrong life.
But my stomach flips anyway.
The server retreats after refilling our glasses. We’re alone in a little bubble of candlelight. He reaches for my hand across the white linen. It’s warm. Familiar. I let him take it.
Here it comes. Adrienne Slade, Chief Legal Counsel, Slade Industries International, soon-to-be Mrs. Colorado Baseball Star. See, you're fine, you can do this…it’s not that bad. Mrs. Fuller. Adrienne Fuller. Adrienne Slade-Fuller. God, no.
“Adrienne,” he says again, and that small box presses against his jacket as he exhales. My lungs forget how to work. The room goes quiet. I taste iron where I’ve bitten my lip. Three seconds, two, one…
I drag my gaze up to his, bracing for sparkle. He swallows, his eyes now sad, and squeezes my hand.
“Can we talk?”
Of course, we can talk. I have bullet points and questions and a color-coded calendar, and I can make the case for waiting like I do for multi-year contracts. I am ready.
I lift my chin, look right at him. “I’m listening.”
Inside, the panic hums. Brighter. Louder. A runaway train I cannot slow down, not in this dress, not in this city, not with the tiny black box I’m praying never sees the light of day.
Do I want to share my husband with thousands of screaming fans? Do I want a life of hotels, road trips, and otherwomen proudly announcing their plans online to shoot their shot with him at the next Rockies game they attend?
I sip my wine to keep from hyperventilating. The stem wobbles in my hand. I picture myself on the Jumbotron, smiling too brightly while holding a toddler in team colors.
I could claim food poisoning. A sudden migraine. A Slade family emergency! God knows my cousins always provide a plausible disaster.
Keegan’s hand shifts toward his jacket again, and my pulse spikes.
Another memory of Scotty pops into my head. This time, it’s that sexy wink he gives me when he’s about to make a comment about how tight my jeans are. I force another smile, softer this time. But under the table, my leg bounces uncontrollably, every nerve buzzing with one refrain I can’t silence.
Don’t say yes. Don’t say no. Just… don’t let him ask.
Because if he does, I might have to admit the truth. It isn’t that Keegan is wrong. It’s that I was hoping I’d be over my little lifelong crush on Scotty by now… but I’m not, and I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
Keegan leans in. I am so busy drafting footnotes to a conversation we have not had that I almost miss the way his thumb drags back and forth over the linen. Slow. Thoughtful. Like he is stalling too.
The room narrows. Silver clinks, a laugh breaks somewhere near the bar, a waiter glides past in a whisper of starch. I count the beats of my pulse.
He clears his throat. “Adrienne.”
My name in his mouth lands heavier than the wine. I straighten. My spine clicks into courtroom posture. I am ready. If he kneels, I will make it gracious. If he does not, I will still make it gracious. I consider faking sick and running to therestroom, my body rising just an inch off the chair before I decide against it and sink back down.
“Listen,” he says, quietly. He reaches for my hand. I let him take it, heat prickling under my skin where his palm covers mine.
