Not So Nice Guy(51)
“Let’s have sex.”
“Sam, you’re crying.”
“Then overload my brain with your mouth.”
“No. Not tonight.”
He sounds mad.
I sit up and turn to him. “Why?”
His hand finds mine on the couch and he squeezes. “It feels old-fashioned to wait until after we elope. I like it. Also, no offense, but I’m not exactly in the mood. It feels like I’d be taking advantage of you.”
“Great.” I toss up my hands. “I’m marrying a prude.”
“Shove over and hand me the remote. I know what will make you feel better.”
“I don’t want to watch HBO porn.”
He pulls up season 2 episode 12 of The Office, the one where Michael grills his foot on his George Foreman Grill. This episode has pulled me out of an end-of-summer funk, a bad-relationship-turned-into-bad-breakup slump, and that one time I got strep throat right after the flu. Ian was there for all of that and he’s here now, watching the episode beside me on my couch. My future husband. Mr. Samantha Abrams.
I’ll find his short brown hair on my pillow. On Saturdays, he’ll insist on making a big breakfast and I’ll eat it even though I really just want a slice of peanut butter toast.
Michael Scott wraps his foot in bubble wrap on screen and I start to remove the bubble wrap around my heart. I’ve kept it there from the beginning of my friendship with Ian. No girl befriends a guy as handsome and charming as him without some kind of safeguard. My heart beats faster as if it’s aware of its newfound freedom. I’ve been holding it back, but now it’s beating at its full potential, thumping and demanding the love I’ve deprived it of. He’s beautiful and he’s going to be mine. I can hardly believe it. I want to lift my hand and feel the contours of his face, his nose, his chin, just to prove to myself he really exists. This isn’t just another dream.
“Are you watching?” Ian asks, aware of my gaze on his profile.
“No.”
“You’re missing your favorite part.”
It’s when Michael asks Pam to rub Country Crock on his foot to help it heal.
“How do you think we’ll watch TV when we’re married?”
“Probably like this.”
“Oh.”
“Except we’ll obviously be nude.”
My jaw drops. He sighs and turns my way, reaching out to close my open trap.
“I’m kidding, Sam. Stop thinking. You’ll spin yourself out of control.”
“I can’t turn my brain off. That dinner was intense. My parents are going to disown me. They’re probably spending my dowry on replacement dinnerware.”
He feigns disappointment. “Really? That was the only reason I proposed.”
“You can back out if you want. There’s still time.”
His gaze falls to my mouth and he reaches out to yank my lip free from my teeth. I didn’t realize I was nibbling on it.
“I should be saying the same thing to you. You’re the one who’s rebelling against her parents. My parents love you. When I call them later to tell them about this, my mom will probably lose her voice from screaming so loud.”
I grin. “That’s because I’m loveable.”
His finger traces my knuckles. His touch is feather light. “I know.”
POP. POP. POP. My bubble wrap keeps deflating.
“What time did we get our marriage license?” he asks, changing the subject like a pro.
“I don’t know…4:50? The courthouse closed at five o’clock and we were the last ones in line.”
“So then at 4:50 on Friday, we will have waited the required 72 hours.”
That’s soon—three sleeps soon.
“I think it’s a good idea if we don’t see each other until then,” he continues.
“But tomorrow is West Wing Wednesday.”
We’ve never missed one, not even for illness. Once, Ian watched in his bedroom while he had a stomach bug and I watched in the living room. We shouted to each other through the door.
“I know, but I think it’s important to give you time to really consider what we’re about to do.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay.” He does have a way of overloading my brain. “Do you need time too?”
“No.”
That word was locked and loaded in his chamber. He says it so quickly, without a blink, and it hits me like a bullet.
Ian’s in love with me.
POP. POP. POP.
Our gazes lock and my apartment becomes a furnace. My sofa seems even smaller than usual and Ian takes up so much of it. I’d only have to scooch over a little bit to reach his lap. I could crawl on top and hook one knee on either side of his hips. He’d be trapped there, completely at my mercy.
“What on earth are you thinking about?” he asks huskily.
“Taking advantage of you. Remember how we were sitting in your car on Saturday? With me on your lap?”
He groans and pushes off his knees to stand. The episode isn’t over yet. Ryan hasn’t even crushed up Aspirin into Michael’s pudding.
Ian goes to the bathroom and when he walks back out, it looks like he splashed cold water on his face. I think Ian wants to have sex with me and he’s trying to convince himself it’s a bad idea. Just the thought makes me clench my thighs.