Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(155)

Francesca leaned back into the booth, possessed by an awful feeling that something inside her was breaking apart. “You don't just blurt out a marriage proposal like that,” she said shakily. “And with the exception of a nine-yeàr-old boy, we don't have a single thing in common.”

“Yeah, well I'm not so sure about that anymore.” Reaching into the pocket of his suit coat, he drew out a small jeweler's box. Extending it toward her, he flipped open the lid with his thumb, revealing an exquisite diamond solitaire. “I bought this from a guy I went to high school with, but I think it's only fair to tell you he spent some time as an unwilling guest of the state of Texas after he walked into a Piggly Wiggly with a Saturday night special in his hand. Still, he told me he found Jesus in prison, so I don't think the ring's hot. But I suppose you can't be too sure about that sort of thing.”

Francesca, who had already taken note of Tiffany's distinctive robin's-egg blue packaging, was paying only the vaguest attention to what he was saying. Why hadn't he mentioned anything about love? Why was he doing it like this? “Dallie, I can't take that ring. I—I can't believe you're even suggesting it.” Because she didn't know how to say what was really on her mind, she threw out all the logical impediments between them. “Where would we live? My job is in New York; yours is everywhere. And what would we talk about once we got out of the bedroom? Just because there's this—this cloud of lust hanging between us doesn't mean we're qualified to set up housekeeping together.”

“Jeez, Francie, you make everything so complicated. Holly Grace and I were married for fifteen years, and we only set up housekeeping in the beginning.”

Anger began to form a haze inside her head. “Is that what you want? Another marriage like the one you had with Holly Grace? You go your way and I go mine, but every few months we get together so we can watch a few ball games and have a spitting contest. I won't be your buddy, Dallas Beaudine.”

“Francie, Holly Grace and I never had a spitting contest in our lives, and it can't have escaped your notice that boy of ours is technically a bastard.”

“So is his father,” she hissed.

Without losing a beat, he shut the Tiffany box and slipped it back in his pocket. “All right. We don't have to get married. It was just a suggestion.”

She stared at him. Seconds ticked by. He lifted a forkful of chicken to his mouth and slowly began to chew.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“I can't exactly force you.”

Anger and hurt rose up so far inside her she thought she would choke. “That's all, then? I say no, and you pick up your toys and go home?”

He took a sip of his club soda, the expression in his eyes as abstract as the silver earrings at her lobes. “What do you want me to do? The waiters would throw me out if I got down on my knees.”

His sarcasm in the face of something so important to her was like a knife through her ribs. “Don't you know how to fight for anything you want?” she whispered fiercely.

The silence that came over him was so complete that she knew she had hit a raw nerve. Suddenly she felt as if the scales had dropped from her eyes. That was it. That was what Skeet had been trying to tell her.

“Who said I wanted you? You take everything too seriously, Francie.”

He was lying to her, lying to himself. She felt his need as much as she felt her own. He wanted her, but he didn't know how to get her and, more important, he wasn't even going to try. What did she expect, she asked herself bitterly, from a man who had played some of the best opening rounds in tournament golf, but who always fell apart at the end?

“Are you going to have room for dessert, Francie? They got this chocolate thing. If you ask me, it could use a couple dabs of Cool Whip on the top, but it's still pretty good.”

She felt a scorn for him that bordered on real dislike. Her love now seemed to be an oppressively heavy weight, too much for her to carry. Reaching over the table, she grabbed his wrist and squeezed it until her fingernails had dug into his skin and she was sure he knew for certain that he needed to listen to every word she had to say. Her words were low and condemning, the words of a fighter. “Are you so afraid of failing that you can't go after one single thing you want? A tournament? Your son? Me? Is that what's been holding you back all this time? You're so afraid of failing that you won't even try?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” He attempted to pull his hand away, but her grip was so tight he couldn't do it without drawing attention to them.

“You haven't even gotten out of the starting blocks, have you, Dallie? You just hang out on the sidelines. You're willing to play the game as long as you don't have to sweat too much and as long as you can make enough wisecracks so everybody understands you don't really care.”

“That's the stupidest—”

“But you do care, don't you? You want to win so much you can bloody well taste it. You want your son, too, but you're holding yourself back from him just in case Teddy won't have you—my wonderful little boy who wears his heart on his sleeve and would give anything in the world for a father who respected him.”

Dallie's face had paled, and his skin beneath her fingers was clammy. “I respect him,” he said sharply. “As long as I live, I'll never forget that day he came after me because he thought I was hurting you—”