Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Cinco de Mayo?” His forehead creases. “I mean, no, but we could start celebrating that if you want.”
I huff out a miserable breath. “Did I miss our anniversary?”
“No. That’s in October.”
“Thank you! So you also count it from the first time we had the real sex?”
“Yeah.” He starts to laugh. “The real sex.” Then he grins. “Can we just enjoy this dinner, please? It’s not an anniversary. Just chillax. Look, I got your favorite bread.”
He got my favorite everything. There is an obscene amount of pasta on this table. Grilled zucchini and mushrooms over fettuccini alfredo. Baked ziti in a rose sauce. Penne and spinach-stuffed chicken baked in mozzarella-laden tomato sauce. My mouth waters as I try to decide what I want to try first. Normally I wouldn’t allow myself to carb load during filming, but it’s our last week on set and I don’t need to watch my weight anymore.
I haven’t eaten since I got home from the studio hours ago, because Dean said to make sure I have an appetite. So I dig in, piling pasta on my plate. Dean doesn’t follow suit. Instead, he watches me eat until I finally shift in discomfort.
“Are you just going to sit there watching me eat? That’s weird.”
“What’s weird about it?”
“It’s weird! Pick up your fork and eat something.”
He obeys, albeit rolling his eyes while doing it. His throat dips as he swallows a piece of bread. It’s from our favorite bakery around the corner from our apartment. I think they bake it in a vat of garlic and oil, but I don’t care.
“Soooo good,” I mumble through a mouthful of bread.
Dean’s watching me again, this time with hooded eyes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Except I know exactly why. Because my mouth is full, and he’s totally picturing me giving him a blowjob.
“I’m picturing you giving me a blowjob,” he says.
I almost choke on my pasta from laughter. “God, never change, babe.”
“I don’t plan on it.” He pauses. “Actually, scratch that. Not all changes are bad, right?”
“I guess not.” I think he’s referring to the fact that The Delaneys is ending and I’m going to have to find something new. “You don’t have to try to make me feel better about work, though. I already told Ira to send me as many scripts and treatments as he can. I’m sure a meaty new role will come along.”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course. But I wasn’t just talking about career changes. I meant other changes too.”
Where on earth is he going with this?
He takes a small sip of his water, then wipes his mouth with a linen napkin that probably cost more than half the furniture in my dad’s house. It always feels so surreal when I come to this multimillion-dollar penthouse. And don’t get me started on the Di Laurentis mansion in Greenwich, which has an honest-to-God skating rink on the grounds, and more than one pool.
Wariness crawls up my spine as I study Dean’s face. He’s acting strange again. One of his big hands moves from the table to rest at the top of his abdomen, as if he’s about to slide it down to his pocket and—
Holy shit.
Oh no.
He’s not actually going to…
When he reaches into his pocket, I realize, oh yes he is.
Suddenly it all clicks in my brain. Fancy dinner with all my favorite dishes from our favorite spots. Our dressy clothes. This penthouse. I know for a fact Dean’s mom is in the city, which means he must’ve sent her back to Connecticut in order to clear out the place for us.
Dean’s hand is about to emerge from his pocket when I stop him with a sharp, “Don’t.”
He freezes. “What?”
“Is this a proposal?” I demand.
The sheepish gleam in his eyes is all the confirmation I need.
“Dean.” It’s a warning.
“What?”
“Why are you doing this? And tonight of all nights?”
Confusion clouds his face. “Why? Because it’s Cinco de Mayo? Fuck, I didn’t realize you cared so much about—”
“I don’t care about that! I care that we’ve had a bunch of conversations about this subject. We talked about it, Dean. We agreed marriage and kids and all that stuff was something we’d discuss in the future.”
“It is the future,” he points out. “We’ve been together four years.”
Frustration sticks to my throat, making it difficult to speak. Along with it comes a burn of irritation that I know I probably shouldn’t feel, but…seriously? Had he not listened to a word I said during all those discussions? I told him I wasn’t ready. And I’d reiterated it just before Tucker and Sabrina got married, because I suspected something like this would happen, that the wedding fever would infect all the boys. The four of them are ridiculously close and tend to copy whatever the other does. Like, Garrett gets into a serious relationship in college, and the next thing you know, Logan is professing his love to Grace on the radio and Tucker’s knocking up Sabrina. So yeah, I’d made sure to clearly articulate my feelings to Dean.