by W L Ripley
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m the greatest.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not the type to put on a pity party.”
“ ‘Pity party’?” I said, brightening. “Sure talk funny for a news personality.”
The corners of her expressive mouth turned up, and her eyes sparkled in the pale light of the fireplace. “Loved by millions,” she said. She sipped her champagne. “Thousands, anyway.”
“At least by one.”
“We’ll start there,” she said.
“Then marry me.”
“I can’t live up to what you expect.”
“You are what I expect.”
She looked into her wineglass. “There have been other men,” she said.
“None of whom,” I said, “are able to bend horseshoes with their eyebrows, I’ll bet.” She looked at me, searched my face. I said, “I don’t care about that. Just you.”
“You can’t live in the city.”
“No. But I want to be with you. I can try. I’m not asking you to give up the things you like. Your career. Your dreams. But I don’t do ‘progressive’ relationships. I want a wife, not a roommate.”
“You’re an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy,” she said. “But a cute one.”
“Also rustproof and guaranteed for life.”
“Not to mention hardheaded and overconfident.”
“I prefer resolute and undaunted.”
She laughed. “And, you’re a wiseass.”
“Then we’re a matched set.”
“You don’t have a job.”
“Don’t need one,” I said. “You have a job and can support me in a manner to which I plan to become accustomed.”
“I’m not fooled by that,” she said. “You are still the king of the sexist porkers. You’d open a car door for Gloria Steinem.”
“Marry me and reform me.”
“I’d have a better chance of being struck by lightning while holding a winning lottery ticket.”
“But nobody loves you like me,” I said. “Nobody.”
Her eyes softened. She looked at me for several seconds. Her lips parted slightly. I gave her the hypnotic Storme smile, the one women were powerless against. She cocked her head.
“Yes,” she said. “I will marry you.”
Actually, it was the first time the old hypnotic smile had worked. Maybe I was on to something.
“Good career move,” I said. “I hear this Storme guy is the catch of the century. So, you wanna kiss or something?”
“How about ‘or something’?”
“I’m not that kind of guy.”
“You’re ridiculous. And you haven’t touched your champagne.”
I looked at it. “I’m afraid if I drink it, you’ll take advantage of me.”
She laughed. “Nobody,” she said, “takes advantage of you.”
So I sipped the champagne. Wasn’t so bad.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
W.L. Ripley is the author of two critical acclaimed mystery series, one featuring Wyatt Storme, an ex-NFL star and atavistic cowboy, and the other featuring Cole Springer, an enigmatic ex-secret service agent. Both series are published by Brash Books. Ripley is a native Missourian who has been a sportswriter, a successful high school and college basketball coach, and a well-respected educator. He enjoys watching football and playing golf, spending time with friends and family, and enjoying a good cigar when his wife, Penny, allows it. He’s a father, grandfather, and unapologetic Schnauzer lover. Ripley writes daily from his western Missouri home.