another woman he wanted to marry and regret either the illegality of bigamy or the hassle of divorce.
They stayed in that garage long enough for the overhead light to switch off. But even in the dark, she could see the very real distress in his eyes when he mentioned her biopsy, hear the certainty with which he told her he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t help her this way.
So despite all her arguments, he didn’t budge. Instead, he led them into the warmth of the kitchen, fiddled with something in his microwave, and upped the ante.
“The only logical path forward is for you to marry me.” After handing her a steaming mug of way-too-expensive hot chocolate—her favorite brand, damn him—he leaned back against the counter. “And we might as well save some living expenses in the meantime. Why don’t you move in?”
She promptly burned her tongue on the cocoa. “What?”
“We’ve been roommates before.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, completely calm. “I know we can live together comfortably.”
She put down the mug and gaped at him. “We were twenty, James. I’m forty-seven now. Set in my ways.”
“Maybe so, but I’m flexible,” he said with a shrug.
That was a damned lie.
Still, he kept looking at her, a virtual wall of a man. Maybe he wasn’t overly tall, but he was strong and built solid, with enough extra heft around the middle to make her feel sheltered in his presence. In her mind, he’d always taken up more space and oxygen than was justified by his size, just through sheer, quiet force of personality.
His appearance, its subtle handsomeness and flagrant maleness, didn’t help either. Those navy-blue eyes were magnetic. Always had been, always would be. That thick, silver-touched russet hair, ruffled from the winter wind, made her want to smooth it with gentle fingers. And that new, post-divorce beard, the way it outlined his jaw and contoured his cheeks, only made looking away from him more difficult.
She knew that squinty, challenging expression, the way his thick brows drew together. She knew that low, measured tone. He wouldn’t give up, on her or on his cockamamie plan.
He’d even pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, a telltale sign he meant business.
And in the end, they both understood she didn’t have a choice. Not really. Even though the prospect of a loveless marriage with James made her ache in ways she didn’t care to consider further.
“Please, Elizabeth.” His voice had turned coaxing, liquid and sweet as her cocoa. “Please marry me.”
She took a long sip of that cocoa for fortitude before she surrendered.
“Okay.” Another sip, and then she met that intent blue gaze, now flaring with victory. “Okay, James. I’ll marry you.”
He sagged against the counter and let out a slow breath, his arms finally uncrossing. Then he smiled at her, his cheeks creasing beneath that way-too-attractive beard, and despite her worry, she couldn’t help smiling back.
The relief of the decision, however hard-fought, dizzied her.
She wasn’t alone in her battles. Not anymore. Not as long as they were married.
Praise God, soon she’d have good health insurance. The moment her coverage became effective, she could get her lump biopsied and afford any necessary treatment. She could schedule her yearly skin exam at the dermatologist. Hell, she could see any doctor she needed to for any of a thousand reasons.
And James would be her husband. Hers. After almost thirty years.
But only for a brief stretch of time.
She didn’t realize she was crying again until he brushed away her tears with gentle, careful sweeps of his thumbs. When he tugged her up from her seat and into his arms, she didn’t resist.
Why did this one man always smell like home to her?
Why did his arms around her always feel like a fortress?
She pulled away after a few seconds to blow her nose and recover herself, but it was too late. The sudden, unexpected release of weeks of tension had weakened her, and so had that devastating smile of his and the safe clasp of his embrace.
She had no more resistance left. She was accepting the inevitable, much as it might hurt in the end.
So after only a few more minutes of discussion and persuasion, she lowered her chin to the kitchen table and closed her eyes. “Fine. I’ll move in with you.”
“Good,” he said, patting away the last wetness on her face with a soft cotton dishcloth.
Within seconds, he’d planned how they’d pack up any necessities from her house and