The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(11)

“Not that you’ve got as much to worry about as the average woman does. Statistically, nearly one in every five women is raped in their lifetime, and that fact doesn’t even take non-sexual assault into consideration. I mean, mugging and murder and all that included, it has to be like one in three, right?”

“I’m not gonna call the police,” he says easily, and I’m almost surprised his voice isn’t scratchy from disuse.

“Oh. Well, that’s good. For sure. I don’t want to be at the Wynn right now, but I don’t necessarily want to be in jail either, ya know?”

He almost smiles, sitting back in his seat and rotating his body slightly to face me. It’s a small change physically, but mentally, I feel as though he’s placed a big, warm hand on my thigh and squeezed. I shift and fidget a little under the extra attention. It’s so intense, it almost feels like scrutiny.

“Jail would be really bad, actually,” I state with a shake of my head. “Pretty sure it would make everything worse.”

“It usually does.”

“Ha!” I laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. It does. But in this case, I’m pretty sure it would mean I was completely and totally screwed, like, no take backs ever. And right now, I’m just in the utterly fucked department.”

His forehead wrinkles slightly, but if it weren’t for that, I’d swear he didn’t even care to know what was going on with me at all. I don’t get it. If some stranger shanghaied me like I did him, I’d be doing the million-question march right now.

I rub at the condensation on my water glass and sigh. Maybe he really wants to know, but he’s not asking out of politeness. Maybe I just have to be the one to break the ice—to offer up an explanation so he doesn’t have to come digging for one. Resolute in my conclusion, I nod, pushing my glass away slightly and turning to face him so our knees just barely rub each other’s. “Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s not like telling you is going to change the situation, but maybe it’ll feel good to get it off my chest.”

He shrugs, jerking up his chin as though to tell me to proceed.

So, I do. I proceed like a goddamn spinning top that can’t slow down once its momentum gets started.

“I, well…I’m Canadian…from Canada. I mean, I don’t live there right now. I live in LA. But I was born in Canada and came here because I got offered my dream job a year ago. Well, one year and two months, to be exact.”

“Canada, eh?”

“Wow,” I remark. “I guess that joke really transcends all Americans. Even the ones who otherwise barely speak.”

He laughs but doesn’t say anything else, instead taking a sip of his own water. For a couple of people at a bar, we make quite the boring pair.

“Well, as it turns out, I’m kind of challenged when it comes to keeping up with my mail and important documents and such, and I just got notice tonight that I let my visa lapse. You know, just the very essential visa that was making sure I was in this country legally.”

His eyebrows lift, more than they have before, a sign that he realizes how serious my situation is, and I nod vigorously. “Yeah, it’s bad. It’s, like, end my career at my dream company, go back to my sad life in Canada with no clear direction for my future bad. I don’t know what I’m going to do or how I’m going to fix it. I don’t have connections with the overlords at the immigration office, and processing times to get a new visa are over a year. I have zero options. Hell, I never even date, so there’s no American man in the picture who would be willing to make some kind of marry-me-to-save-my-ass-from-deportation pact. Basically, I’m just waiting for ICE to come take me away in handcuffs and put me on a plane back to Vancouver.”

I take a huge swig of my water and slam it back down on the bar before turning to face him again, my whole face collapsing. “So, yeah. You’re kind of stuck dealing with me on one of my worst nights, and if I had any kind of inner peace whatsoever, I would apologize to you. As it is, though, all I can do is sit here and whine. And hydrate, though I’m considering switching to vodka. And quite possibly, go on the lam.”

He leans forward into the bar, puts his elbows onto the surface, and lets out a quiet breath that I’m surprised I can hear over my own breakdown. It’s easy—not at all troubled like my own—and I think that might have something to do with just how caught off guard I am when he speaks.

“Fuck it. I’ll make that pact.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll marry you.”

I whip my head toward him violently, so much so that a pop in a tendon of my neck makes stars flash on the surface of my eyes. Still, the beginning stages of an aneurysm or stroke or whatever can wait.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He looks at me closely, his eyes reading mine with careful intent. His posture is calm, his stature poised, and he doesn’t repeat himself. I know he doesn’t waste words, ever, and so I can only assume he doesn’t reiterate the same ones when he doesn’t need to.

“You just said you’d marry me.”

He just stares. Relaxed, cool as a cucumber, and not all freaked out by what he just offered.

“You just said you’d marry me, and you don’t even know me. How does that make any sense?”

He shrugs. “Because you don’t need a husband. You need a green card. And I don’t have any plans to have a real wife.”