Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
He taps the button and the screen advances to the next slide, a screenshot of our text.
“I believe you’re familiar with this negotiation?” he asks.
“I am,” I say.
“Do you debate the situation?” He looks me in the eyes.
I can see he’s hurt. I won’t argue with that. But calling it heartbreak? I’m not sure that’s fair. “I ended things because they made sense.”
“You deny my feelings?”
“We’ve only been dating a few weeks,” I say.
He changes tack. “It didn’t hurt you, ending things?”
“It hurt me, yes. But you let me.”
“We agreed to the honor system, didn’t we?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“I asked if you have feelings. Did you lie?”
“Maybe a little,” I admit.
“I should have argued more. Forced you to admit the full extent. But a part of me knew you weren’t ready. And I wasn’t ready. Not yet. I needed to think. I needed to look at the logic myself.” River’s eyes bore into mine. “You were right. There was logic I needed to see. But I was right, too.”
“You were?”
“You lied about your feelings. Why?” he asks. “If there’s only logic, why lie?”
“I didn’t know how else to convince you.”
“But that’s not the only reason, is it.” His eyes meet mine. “There’s more.”
There is. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” It occurs to me all at once. “I wanted to keep you closer, but I didn’t want to hurt you. And I didn’t want to hurt more later. I told myself that was logic, but…” I’m as illogical as everyone else. Sometimes, at least.
“So your left arm belongs to me.”
What is he getting at? “Is there a tattoo artist waiting in the office?”
“No.” He smiles. “I didn’t specify a tattoo.”
That’s true.
“I believe there’s a traditional use for the left arm. Well, the left hand.” He pulls something from his pocket, a velvet ring box.
No.
He wouldn’t.
That’s crazy.
Too crazy, even for him.
He doesn’t drop to one knee, but he does open the box and advance the slide, which reads Marriage in big, pink letters.
“I believe this would be fair, under the terms of our agreement,” he says.
“If you want to be technical.”
“And I know you do.”
I do. I can’t help but smile. “Are you asking?”
“Asking? No. You’ve already agreed. And it’s a little early for a marriage proposal. But since I could force the issue, I believe I have the upper hand.”
He does. Damn, he’s good.
“I have a counter proposal.” He taps the screen again.
A picture of the New York City skyline appears on screen.
“Come back with me.”
“To New York?”
“You’d love it,” he says. “Give it six months. If you hate it, leave, no questions asked. I won’t fight you on it. Or insist I still control your left arm.”
“Generous.”
“If you love it.” He looks me in the eyes. “You stay for a while. Maybe not forever. But for a while.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Besides honoring your agreement?” He smiles. “I’m glad you asked.” He taps the button to the next slide.
Reasons Why Deanna Huntington and River Beau
Belong Together
1) Neighbors already know how to coexist
2) Deanna’s fierce logic complements River’s artistic impulses
3) She’s a great dancer and he needs training
4) They respect each other
5) They’re in love
All my breath leaves my body at once.
This is absurd and perfect and sweet.
Then he advances to the next slide.
Reasons Why Deanna Huntington Belongs in
New York City
1) The most powerful woman in the world should be in the center of the universe
2) She looks great in black
3) NYC weather allows for boots far more often than California weather
4) There are more jazz clubs in NYC
5) The Huntingtons are yet to conquer the East Coast
“I find the arguments persuasive, but I understand I’m asking a lot,” he says.
“You’re asking me to leave my sister,” I say.
He nods. “For six months. If, after six months, you don’t enjoy New York, I’m willing to come back to California for six months.”
“You’d stay here?” I ask. “You hate it here.”
“It would be different, if I was here with someone I loved.”
Oh. I swallow hard.
“I have one last proposal.”
I don’t know what to say, so I murmur an “Oh?”
“I’ll be here for another six weeks. To finish up with the LA office. And help my grandmother—there’s a lot I have to explain there—then I’m going back to the city. I’ve already talked to a friend who needs to sublease their apartment. It’s a two-bedroom in the Village, a few blocks from a jazz club. Perfect for you.” He looks into my eyes. “If you’re still game in six weeks, you come with me and give us, and the city, a shot.”
“Okay,” I hear myself say.
“Do you have any questions?”
“Yes.” I motion one minute, pull up my cell phone, navigate to the relevant site. He watches as I do what I need to do. “Is first class too bourgeois for you?” I flash him the screen. Two first-class tickets from SNA to JFK in six and a half weeks.