Page 29 of Marry Lies
I nearly drop my freshly made macchiato. “You met Liam?”
She nods, finishing her tea. “I did. He’s very kind. Seems you did not inherit those genes.”
I grind my jaw as I sip my drink. “Mmm. I suppose not. Speaking of snacks, I’d prefer you keep those new containers in the pantry. I like my counters sparse.”
She turns to face me. “Fine.”
Placing her mug in the dishwasher, I scowl when she picks up the tea towel and starts to clean the counter with it.
“We have paper towels, you know.”
She shrugs. “It’s wasteful. I can wash and reuse this.”
Glaring at her, I lean against the counter. “Trust me, I’m all for being eco-friendly. But we are also in a drought here in California.”
She spins to face me. “Are you going to cross-examine everything I do?” I can’t help but admire the way her skin is practically glowing. She must’ve worked out earlier. My eyes rove to her neck briefly, where her skin still has a thin sheen of sweat. “Because if you are, we should get it all out in the open now.”
I sip my macchiato to hide my smile. “We should probably discuss the wedding,” I say, changing the subject.
Her eyes go wide. “That’s one hell of a proposal, Miles.”
I rub the back of my neck, realizing that I enjoy riling her up way too much. “I suppose we should make an appointment at the courthouse.”
She blows out a slow, steady breath. “I suppose so, since you left us no choice.”
“The good news is, I know the mayor of Crestwood, so I can get us an appointment for this weekend.”
“How romantic.”
“I know it’s not ideal,” I say, scowling. “But I think the sooner this year is over, the better. For both of us. So, the courthouse it is.”
I know I’m being curt and rude, but I need to get my point across.
She shrivels at my words as she swallows, giving me a resigned shrug. “Okay. You plan it,” she says indifferently. “Just tell me when and where.”
“Estelle,” I growl as she begins to walk away.
Fuck.
“It appears that I have absolutely no say in any of this, do I?” she asks quietly from her place by the back door. Spinning around, I’m surprised to see that her eyes are sparkling with something resembling tears.
Now I really feel like an asshole…
“First, I’m bombarded with texts about being engaged to a man I’d only met twice, and then I get here, where I’m pressured into marrying you—”
“Pressured?” I ask, my voice hard.
“Yes. You plied me with martinis—”
“It wastwomartinis,” I growl.
“And I believe your exact words were, ‘we could both take what we want by the goddamn balls.’”
I wince. “I did say that.” Setting my coffee down, I walk over to where she’s standing. She sniffs once and gives me a resolute look, as if she’s determined not to cry in front of me.
“I’m not very good at this,” I tell her honestly as I rub my face with my hand. I almost reach for her hands, but then her eyes dart to my neck.
I pull the collar of my dress shirt farther up to hide as much of my scarring as possible.
