Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
“The Plaza is quite nice,” Neil said, almost too quickly. At my raised eyebrow he said defensively, “Look, it isn’t that I’ve never thought of marrying you. I’d like to see you walking down the aisle in the Terrace Room. In your beautiful white gown—”
“Whoa there, partner. That much white would wash me out. And it buys into that whole purity culture bullshit. Nuh-uh.” I shook my head firmly. “But we can put the Plaza on the list.”
“What about St. Patrick’s? That would please your mother,” Neil suggested. “We could do the reception at the rooftop gardens at Rockefeller Center.”
“There is no priest in his right mind who’ll let us get married in the church. I’m your second marriage, you’re not Catholic, and I haven’t been to mass in seven years. Oh, and we had that abortion, which you know, Catholic Church, not huge abortion fans.”
“Hmm, and the ‘no sex until after the wedding’ clause is probably non-negotiable?” He frowned. “There’s the Mandarin, they have a lovely ballroom. It’s very modern, if that’s what you’re going for.”
“I suppose we’ll have to really look at our options, huh?” My excitement deflated at the thought of going through what Emma was going through. Then I brightened. “Well…more of a reason to set the date then.”
He winced.
Okay, that wasn’t cool. “Um…is there something you want to tell me?”
“No, it’s not…” he sighed heavily. “It isn’t that I don’t want to get married. I do. I wouldn’t have proposed to you if I didn’t. I’m just not looking forward to the wedding. I’m looking forward very much to being married to you. But the last time I did this, the wedding marked the beginning of the end. Now that I’ve actually proposed, it’s all much more real to me.”
After they’d returned from their honeymoon, Neil’s ex-wife had revealed that she’d stopped using any form of birth control, despite their agreement that they wouldn’t have children. That had fractured the trust between them to an extent they’d been unable to repair, though they’d spent two years trying before calling it quits. In my excitement over my impending marriage, I’d forgotten about the painful details of Neil’s disastrous one. It was only natural—if completely illogical—for him to be nervous.
“I’m not comparing you to Elizabeth, or expecting you to do what she did. Contrary to what I might express in frustration at counseling, I do feel that I can trust you to come to me with important things. Most of the time.”
“And you know I’m not going to sabotage my IUD or something,” I assured him. “And I’m not going to turn into a bridezilla.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, fine. There will probably be some bridezilla antics, but I promise, they’ll be low-level.” I shook my head. “Ugh, we should not be talking about this. I’m going to sub drop like a bastard.”
Neil grimaced. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. We’ll save it for therapy. Come here.”
I scooted up against him and laid my head on his shoulder, and he threaded his fingers in my hair to rub my scalp as he spoke. “Let’s talk about the honeymoon. That’s what I’m looking forward to.”
“We’re taking a honeymoon?” I gasped in mock surprise. “I didn’t think you’d ever take a day off work again.”
“To go somewhere preferably tropical, where you’ll wear tiny bikinis and I’ll get to slather sunscreen all over you? You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to miss a chance at that.”
“I heard Belize is nice,” I suggested, imagining hot sand on my toes and crystal blue water stretching toward the horizon.
Neil made an approving noise. “Or Fiji? I have a friend who owns an island in the area. I’m sure he’d let us rent it.”
“Or the Marquesas!” I could really get into this whole tropical vacation thing.
“I’ve always wanted to go, and I’ve never done.” He paused. “Did we…did we just plan a part of our wedding?”
“The Marquesas it is.” I picked up his hand and shook it firmly. “What do we decide on next?”
“Dinner.” He patted my hip with the arm wrapped around my back. “Shall I cook something, or do we order take out?”
“Neither. You just worked all day. I’ll cook.” I leaned up and kissed him, then rolled away.
“You know, I could get used to coming home from a hard day at the office to find my wife has made me dinner,” he said, watching me as I headed off to the bathroom.
I paused by the dressing room door to give him my most good-natured knock-it-the-fuck-off-right-now look. “I assume that in this scenario, we’re talking about your third wife.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
India Vaughn was the kind of woman who looked way meaner than she was. This was due in part to her ice blue eyes and the stern set of her mouth. She used to be a heavy smoker, before New York became “a socialist state,” in her words. So, whenever she was sitting with nothing to do, she looked miserable and resentful. Probably longing for the days of giving the public the gift of COPD.