I couldn’t force Gianna to marry me. I wanted—needed—to be different than the other men in her life. She liked me. I knew I couldn’t handle seeing the betrayal in her eyes now, not after she’d told me that and how much better it had felt than hearing she hated me.
“I could just as easily find someone else for her,” he baited.
“Go ahead.” My voice was dark. “Might save us both some time if you line her prospects up in a row right now.”
“Jesus,” Nico muttered. “Fine. Then, think of it this way—this relationship of yours makes Gianna look like a throwaway. Good enough to fuck, but not good enough to marry.”
I clenched my teeth.
“I’m not saying it.” He rocked back in his chair. “Just the way it looks, Allister.”
I got to my feet, finished with this conversation.
“Good luck,” he said.
“Fuck you.”
His chuckle followed me out the door.
SOMETHING SMELLED LIKE PANCAKES. IT made my stomach churn.
I loved pancakes.
I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair, then padded out to the kitchen to find Christian at the stove, shirtless, his hair wet. I loved him like this, the casual side of him not many got to see. Like this, he was mine.
But when I wrapped my arms around his waist, he tensed. Uncertainty flickered through me. He’d been quiet the past couple of days, and an insecure part of me was obsessing over what it could mean. Things had been well since he’d opened up to me last week, but I hadn’t asked him for more, either. It was pathetic, I knew, but I was scared the next question would push him away for good. And to test it felt like toeing the edge of the dark.
“Are you hungry?” he asked when I stepped away from him.
I looked at the plate of pancakes on the counter and wrinkled my nose. “Not right now.” Grabbing the orange juice from the fridge, I poured a glass.
The next words out of his mouth caused me to choke as the first refreshing sip slid down my throat. “We should get married.”
I coughed, eyes watering. Slowly, I set the glass on the island and wiped some juice off my chin.
“I don’t think I heard you right.”
He turned to face me, his eyes deep and unfathomable. “I said, we should get married.”
My chest flared from hot to cold. “What?”
“You heard me, Gianna.”
My pulse raced. “We’ve only been seeing each other for, like . . . a month.”
He let out a sarcastic breath. “You’ve been mine for fucking years.”
The conviction in his voice fluttered through my blood, settling in my heart. The shock had thrown me off-balance, and I didn’t know how to react. I walked around the island to put some distance between us; to find some space to think.
I turned toward him. “I told you how I feel about marriage.”
He shook his head, his eyes flickering with something heavy. “You know those aren’t realistic expectations. Maybe for another woman, but not you.”
I hated that he was right. That eventually, if I did stay, all it would take was one man to be interested enough in me. It seemed Made Men just couldn’t fathom that a woman could remain single and happy.
My blood pulsed in my ears.
My hands were clammy.