Page 11 of Honeyed

“To help you, to help August. That’s why I want to do this.” Except that’s a total lie, and we both know it.

“We can’t just get married, Warren.” Her jaw is still dropped like she’ll never be able to pick it up again.

“Think about what we could gain if I get this money. How we could help August out. The ability to get your store and run it how you want with no help from your father. If I do this, if I get Arthur’s estate, I could do so much good.” My voice sounds like it’s begging her, and I am.

Not only because I desperately want to do those things, but deep down, I need to know. I need to know if this is where I belong. If she’s who I’m meant to be with. If we have any shot at this, this is the only one we’ll get.

“By me being your wife? This sounds insane, Warren. My family will never buy it. The town gossip mill will actually break down in shock. Not to mention getting married is supposed to be for two people in love who want to form a family. Welcome children into it. Live under the same roof. Marriage, Warren. This isn’t us being best friends.”

Alana waves her hands, and her voice reaches its highest octave as she gets more and more worked up. Her beer is now on my coffee table, and she’s half standing, half leaning on the couch as if she doesn’t know if she’ll bolt at any moment. Then, she starts to chew on her pinky nail, the tell that she’s incredibly flustered or nervous.

“I know it isn’t. And I’m still asking. People will only know what we tell them. We can—”

Suddenly she stands, her waves whipping around as she heads for the door. I try to reach out to grab her slim elbow, but she’s so frantic that I miss.

“No. No, I need …” Those blue eyes dart around my place. “Space. You’ve had days to think about this, and expect me to just agree on the spot?”

“Please, take the time you need. Just … not too long. August.” My explanation only needs to be one word.

Something dark flickers through her eyes, as if she’s pissed the fuck off that I’m dangling that grief and guilt on her shoulders. We stare at each other for a moment, everything else stripped away, and I see what we could be.

Marriage. Children. A home. Alana’s words spark hope and excitement that I’ve pushed down deep for nearly fifteen years.

“I have to go.” Her voice snaps those daydreams like a whip cracking them in half as she wrenches my door open and does just that.

Once again, I’m left in the waiting game of my life, wondering where I’ll end up.

5

ALANA

He called me an obstacle.

As if I’m the linchpin that could keep him from Arthur’s fortune. As if being married to me is just some item on a checklist to get him the more important things he wants.

Finding myself still in bed at this hour is strange. Usually, I’m an early riser, and the day can’t start soon enough for my energetic ass. But my phone reads nine forty-five in the morning as I turn over in my fluffy white duvet, and I sigh with exhaustion.

No sleep was had last night, even after popping a melatonin and turning on my essential oils diffuser. I tried to relax myself into a state where I could think rationally and then sleep on it, but of course, that didn’t happen. Instead, I chewed half my nails off in the night and only wound myself into more of a knot over Warren’s … proposal.

I still can’t even think the word without spiraling.

My best friend, the guy who used to watch The Hunger Games trilogy with me when I was sick as a teenager, the guy who called me chickenshit for not attempting a zip line course when our friends took a Caribbean beach trip years ago, the guy who I have spent years laughing and trying not to share my real feelings with …

He asked me to marry him. To be his wife. To put his ring on my finger and skip away into the sunset.

Okay, he did not ask me that last part. Because I need to remember that this would all be fake—just a means to an end. I freaked out before Warren could give me any details, but in essence, he wants to get married so that he could claim Arthur’s estate. That could mean there’s an end date, a waiting period until he can offload me and keep all the trappings for himself.

It’s not because he’s madly in love with me or can’t live without me. God forbid he feels the way I feel and wants to pursue it. He called me an obstacle, and that word burned into my heart like he’d branded me with a poisonous prod.

No way in hell could I actually go through with it … right? So then, how come the more I toss it over in my brain, the more polished it becomes? Like a rock that needs smoothing to iron out the harsh edges.

Pulling my covers over my head, I groan at how anxious and confused I feel. The idea churns in my stomach, leaving no room for breakfast.

It’s Saturday, and I promised my mom and Cass that I’d go to our childhood home to bake cookies for the high school bake sale. Even though all I want to do is wallow in bed and debate about making either the dumbest or smartest decision of my entire life.

But because I can’t stand to be alone with my thoughts for one more minute, I drag myself from under the covers, slap on some moisturizer and lip balm, grab my bag, and head for the car.

The drive through my neighborhood is quiet even though the weather is warming up, and I know I’ll see the kids racing down the street on their bikes and screeching through sprinklers soon. I bought my cozy two-bedroom ranch about two years ago, back when I couldn’t stand to live with my parents any longer.

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