by Tamara Lush
He shrugs. “You know, it’s not uncommon for guys in the military to get married quickly. They want their girlfriends to have benefits. They want to have someone back home who’s thinking about them. Someone who cares. It’s a morale booster. I never had a girlfriend when I was deployed overseas.”
I’m gulping in shallow breaths now, because the idea of something awful happening to Damien fills me with anxiety
“The difference is, you’re a contractor now. You’re not in the military anymore. You don’t have to go.”
“I did sign an employment agreement. So yes, I do have to go.”
I stare out the window again. “You want to have someone back home to think about. To write to. To call.”
“No, Kate, I don’t want someone. I want you back home. I want to write and call and think about you.”
He does? Then why doesn’t he say the L-word? Why can’t I? It’s as if we’re both afraid to voice our true feelings.
I swallow a few times, trying to rid the lump from my throat. Damien grabs my hand and gives my fingers another kiss.
“Girlie, why don’t we make the most of your time off? We’ve got time to worry about this wedding stuff. Let’s take it as it comes. I want to be with you right now. In the moment.”
“Really?” I sniffle. God, don’t cry. I take a tissue out of my purse and dab at my nose.
“Really. I truly enjoy you as a person. A friend. This isn’t just sex for me.”
I smirk.
“Okay, I love that, too. Love having sex with you. I think about it a lot.”
That makes me giggle. Maybe I don’t need to define what we have right at this second.
He lightly bites my knuckle. “Listen. I got us a swank hotel room, booked a spot on a pirate cruise, and have a few more surprises for you. Let’s act like normal people today and tonight. Normal engaged people who enjoy each other an awful lot.”
I let go of his hand and squeeze his muscular thigh.
“Even though we’re not all that normal?”
“Even though.” I love that wicked grin of his. It’s devilish, laced with little-boy innocence.
“I’m glad you tolerate my obsession with tacky pirate stuff.”
“Don’t mind at all. It’s kind of hilarious. And adorable.”
My face flares with heat. “Well, I have a surprise for you, too.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“Cuban sandwiches. It was going to be our post-wedding meal. I found a place near our hotel. It’s going to be my cheat meal for the entire year.” My mouth waters at the thought of all that fatty, cholesterol-laden meat. I let out a throaty moan. “Did you know they put lard in Cuban bread?”
His eyebrows shoot up, and he pats his stomach. “If I could engineer a perfect woman, it would be one who shares my love for pickles between slabs of meat on pressed bread made with lard.”
And so I push aside questions of love, marriage, and the future—all the things I’m afraid of and worried about—and try to act like I’m on a quick getaway with my boyfriend. Surprisingly, it works.
We hold hands and stuff ourselves with sandwiches. We take the pirate cruise on a tacky tourist ship in Tampa Bay, and he snaps photos of me laughing so hard that tears leak out of my eyes. Later that night in our gorgeous hotel room, we tumble into the king-sized bed and have sweet, filthy sex. Twice.
Right as I’m falling asleep in his arms, my skin sparking from the orgasms and the feel of the 800-thread count sheets, I stroke his broad chest.
“Taking things as they come isn’t so bad,” I say sleepily.
He kisses my forehead, his stubble tickling my face. “Now you’re beginning to understand.”
Eighteen
Kate
Because we’re now “engaged,” our families don’t mind if we sleep in each other’s rooms. Both my mom and his family are progressive and non-traditional—they’d all come to Paradise Beach decades ago when it was something of a hippie commune-like outpost. Why I thought they’d care is beyond me now that we’re actually together.
So we fall into a routine: I work nights at the bar, Damien picks me up. On my days off we sometimes hang out with his military contractor friends on the mainland—his company’s based in Tampa, so he knows plenty of people all over the region—or we head to his house or mine for movies, snacks, and snuggling.
And sex.
I’d been worried that one or both of us would get bored. Not because I could imagine a day when I would be bored with Damien and his panty-melting bedroom skills, but I assumed that’s what happens when couples spend a ton of time together.
That is not happening with us.
Our wildest times are at his house, where his bedroom is mercifully on another floor, far from where his Mom and Dad sleep.
Tonight it’s two days before Christmas, and I’m at his house, in his room. I suspect something’s up because he’s been more quiet than usual since picking me up from the bar.
“So,” I plop on his bed, crossing my legs. “Want to watch a movie? The Grinch, maybe?”
I’ve come to discover that when Damien is nervous or thinking or nervously thinking, he chews on the inside of his cheek. It makes his lips pout adorably, and when they do, I long to kiss his worries away.
I extend my arms in his direction. “Come here.”
He shakes his head, which makes my stomach fizz uncomfortably. Things have been going ridiculously well with us. Too well. Sometimes I forget that we’re getting married so I can have health insurance. He’s been generously paying for my blood washing treatments, and I keep telling him I’ll pay him back.
Maybe he’s realizing that having a wedding under these circumstances is a stupid idea. Or maybe he’s decided he’s not that into me, after all. I have enough baggage to keep a small jet from taking off.
“Stay there. I’ve gotta grab something in the other room.” His voice, which is normally velvety and low, is uncharacteristically rough and crackling.
“Okay,” I chirp. When I’m nervous, my voice tends to rise in octave.
I watch as he walks out of the room, admiring his butt in those faded jeans and his broad shoulders in the dark blue hoodie. Will he wear a tux at the wedding? We haven’t yet talked about that—his mom is handling almost everything, and Mom and I are going dress shopping next week, hoping to scoop up an after-Christmas sale.
Mom’s good with a needle, so any alterations will be done by her—if she’s up for it. Lately she’s been exhausted from her treatments.
I sit on the bed for several long minutes, looking at my phone. First, I check in with Mom, who says she’s watching a movie with Beau. That guy’s really picking up the slack with her care, and I’ve really warmed up to him.
Swiping over to Instagram, I see that my best friend Lauren has arrived in Paris and will be spending Christmas there at some hotel, partying with people she doesn’t know. I admire her extrovert nature, her ability to make friends with anyone in a second.
The photos she posted of the white-silver holiday decorations everywhere are incredible. I scroll through her Instagram feed, and something dawns on me.
I’m not jealous. When I first came home to Paradise, I’d been practically Grinch-colored with envy whenever I saw her gorgeous social media pictures. I couldn’t wait to be on the road with her, experiencing all those new things.
And now? I feel joy—for her.
It’s not that I don’t want to see the world. I do. But this past month I’ve been happier than I’ve been in years, and my desire to do anything but live in the moment is low.
Which makes me all the more worried that Damien is pacing his kitchen, trying to muster the courage to break it off.
The door swings open. “Hey,” he says, voice soft.
He’s toting a large gold gift bag and climbs on the bed, knee-walking to me.
“Merry Christmas.”
I beam. All of my fear ebbs away. “You should’ve told me we were exchanging gifts tonight. Yo
urs is back at the house.” I’d bought him a military history book—he’s been on a kick, reading about the American Revolution. I’m also planning to make him the most kick-ass Nutella brownies he’s ever eaten in his life.
“We’ve got tomorrow. And Christmas. I couldn’t wait.”
When I open the bag, a little squeal escapes my lips. Inside is a book. I pull it out and gasp.
It’s a heavy, hardcover coffee table book of a Harry Potter exhibition was at the British Library some years ago. It’s one of those beautiful books I’d never buy myself because it’s way too expensive. I immediately begin devouring the colorful pages.
“I knew you loved Harry Potter and thought you might like that.”
“Like it? I adore it. Thank you.” I lean in and give Damien a huge hug.
“There’s another gift, too.”
“You didn’t have to…” I’m grinning wide as I dive back into the bag and reach for a second wrapped box. The paper is black, and there’s a scarlet ribbon wound around the matte paper.
I carefully undo the ribbon and the paper and open the black box.
Inside is an expensive black silicone and steel vibrator.
“Oh my God,” I laugh. “Santa got a little dirty this year.”
“This gift’s not so wholesome,” he growls, leaning in for a kiss. I slip him some tongue and giggle wickedly.
“I want you to use this while I’m gone and think of me.”
“Can I use it now and think of you?” I plant another kiss on his lips.
“Maybe in a minute.” He breaks away and sits on his heels. “And I have one more thing to give you.”
“Damien…” I protest, eyeing the sleek vibrator and wondering if we’ll need to charge it or if we can use it right away. He takes the book and the vibe and sets them on his desk, then comes to me on the bed, kneeling.
“Kate. Um. I know this is a little odd. Especially after the last two gifts. Jesus, I’m terrible at this. But I was talking to Ma, and she noticed you didn’t have one of these, so she gave me this.”
He pulls a small black leather box out of his hoodie pocket. I hiccup in a breath.
“It was her mother’s ring. And she…I …wanted to give it to you. I want you to have it. So that it looks like we’re legit and all.” He shakes his head. “Christ. Could I screw this up any more? We’re legit and all. Dammit, I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I want you to have this. For real. Will you, um…”
My chest constricts and I gulp in a shallow breath.
He pops the top back. A diamond solitaire ring winks at me. God, this is awkward. And sweetly romantic. And weird and… holy crap I’m going to cry…
“…marry me?” he croaks.
I’m so shocked; I can’t say a word. I think my heart and lungs have ceased to function, too. The shallow breaths have ceased, and blood whooshes in my ears.
“You don’t have an engagement ring, and you need one. I wanted you to have one.” He takes the ring out of the box then grabs my hand.
I still don’t have oxygen coming in or out of my lungs. All I can do is gape at the ring, then him. He slides it onto my finger, and somehow, it fits well. Good lord, it gives off more sparkles than a glitter factory. I’m not a woman who’s longed to be a bride, but this ring is doing…things to me.
Wannabe-bride things. I imagine myself trying on a dress with Mom looking on.
“Breathe, Kate. You’re face is turning a weird shade of red. It’ll all be okay.”
I nod. Mom is going to weep when she sees this. I’m trying not to weep right now. What is going on with me?
“Will you marry me?” He cups my face and tilts my head up so my eyes meet his.
“Yes,” I say, my voice trembling and hesitant.
I inhale thinly through my nose and stare into his dark eyes. Maybe now’s the time to tell him I love him, but he steals the words from my mouth with a long kiss.
And so instead of telling him, I show him with my body.
Nineteen
Kate
The next morning, Damien and I walk a few streets over from his house, to the island’s main drag.
Paradise Street runs through the heart of the island, and today, four blocks of the business district are closed to cars for the annual Ho-Ho-Ho Holiday Indie Market. It’s a famous street market in this part of Florida with interesting and unique handmade things from artists and businesses in the community. Paintings of Pete, the island alligator, tye-dye dresses with the town logo, artisan pickles, and tiny plants nestled in plastic dinosaur planters—if it’s quirky, it’s here.
I’m hoping to buy gifts for Mom and Mrs. Hastings, figuring I’ll find something for their eccentric tastes.
We’re also starving, and there’s a smorgasbord of tasty food in a food truck court. Most of it is off-limits for me, and I inhale the decadent, fried dough smell. I groan and look at The Beignet Bus.
“What if I get some and you have one bite?” Damien says.
My mouth waters at the idea of biting into a sugary donut. “Yeah, that should be okay and a chicory coffee. Black. But I’ll need something healthier and more filling so I’m going to grab a tofu wrap at that place there.” I point to an old yellow school bus with the words Vegan Van painted on the side.
He winces. “Okay. Meet you back here at these tables.”
There’s no line for the Vegan Van, and I saunter up to the window. “I’ll have a scrambled tofu wrap with mushrooms and spinach. And hot sauce.”
“You got it,” says the woman. She pauses. “Whoa. Look at that sparkle. Is that real?”
“Hunh?” That’s when I realize she’s talking about the engagement ring on my finger.
I look down, as if it’s not my hand. “Oh! Yeah. Yes. It is. I, we, got engaged last night.”
“Well, it’s gorgeous, girl.” She beams.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Will I ever get used to being engaged? I mull this as I take my tofu wrap and walk back to Damien, who is paying for his beignets.
“People are noticing the ring,” I say.
“Oh yeah?”
We walk over to a picnic table and sit, both on the same side. The strains of a salsa band can be heard from the other end of the market.
“You ready for your one bite of beignet?” he asks.
“Give it to me,” I growl, then open my mouth.
He offers the fried dough ball, and I open my mouth and take a huge bite. I know there’s powdered sugar on my mouth but I don’t care.
“Kate, the way your eyes are rolling back in your head, you’d think you were having an orgasm.”
I shut my eyes and chew. And moan. Finally, I swallow, then wipe my mouth with a napkin. “I think I did come a little bit. That was incredible.”
He shakes his head and chuckles. I sip my coffee, reveling in the sweet-bitter combination. “My tofu wrap has lost its luster,” I say.
“You’ve gotta eat something. Please? You can’t only have coffee and a bite of donut.”
I smile and reach for my wrap. It’s surprisingly tasty, and my whole body warms whenever he points out that it’s necessary to take care of myself. It only highlights the fact that before I met him, I’d neglected lots of basic self-care other than my daily running regimen.
We eat and people watch in comfortable silence. When I’m finished with my wrap, I turn to him and waggle my finger with the engagement ring. “You don’t mind that people know we’re engaged?”
He scowls. “Why would I? Do you mind people knowing?”
“No,” I say, suddenly defensive.
A couple slides into the seat opposite us on the picnic table. On instinct I smile, then my heart jumps into my throat when I see a thatch of thin, blond hair on the man.
Eric Anderson. The guy Damien fought in high school because of me. Twinges of shame and fear burst in my chest, and suddenly I feel like a teenager again.
“Dudes, what’s up? Long time no see!” Eric’s grinning at us like long-lo
st friends.
“Hey,” Damien says in an even voice. I stay silent because I have no idea what to say.
“Man, I haven’t seen you two since high school. How’s it going? I heard you were overseas, Damien. Good on ya. Thanks for your service, man.”
The open expression on Eric’s round face tells me that either he’s punking us or that he’s forgotten about our senior year entirely.
“You’re welcome,” Damien says in a gruff voice.
Eric introduces us to the woman he’s with, a blonde in a bright blue sweatshirt. I immediately forget her name.
“Yeah, I’ve been in Orlando the past few years,” Eric says in a chatty voice. “Doing medical sales, starting a family.”
That’s when I notice the woman’s belly. I paste on a smile and nod, my palms pressing into the wood tabletop.
“How about you two? How are you, Kate? Heard you took over for your mom at the tiki bar.”
“We’re getting married in February,” Damien says casually, taking my hand and resting his big thumb on my knuckle above my ring finger.
“No shit?” Eric yelps. “Congratulations! I always knew there was something between the two of you. Y’all always made a great couple ‘cuz you were both quiet.”
This is the guy who spread the rumor that I’d taken it up the butt with Damien in the bathroom that night of the senior year party. It’s as if he’s glossing over a deeply painful part of my past. How? Does he even remember what he said? Or how he and Damien got into a fight in the school parking lot?
Eric gazes at me with near-colorless green eyes. Creepy. I lick my lips, feeling squicked out.
“Thanks,” Damien says. “Guess it was fate that we were meant to be together.”
I blink. Damien is also acting like nothing ever happened. The tofu wrap in my stomach churns like clothes in a washing machine.
“What a gorgeous ring!” Eric’s wife says. “Is that a two carat?”
Uh. I didn’t think to ask Damien how many carats were in his family heirloom stone. I look at my hand, which is half-covered by Damien’s bear-like paw. “Yeah,” I say.