Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(30)

“Gentlemen, it seems you’re missing the most obvious solution.”

“What is it? Tell me. Tell us,” I say.

“You don’t know what it is?”

Erik shakes his head. I do the same.

“The marriage stipulation,” she adds, making a rolling gesture as if encouraging us to catch up. There’s a wicked grin on her face. A hint of mischief and victory in her eyes. “It only stipulates that a married grandson would control the company. It doesn’t say which one.”

Erik opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. I’m not sure what to say either.

Elise points at me. “You could go propose to the waitress.”

Erik laughs loudly, smacking his palm on the table. He points to me, a look of utter delight on his face. “Or you could marry Elise. For three months.”





17





Christian





“Going to the chapel . . .” Erik’s voice carries through my flat as he stumbles into the bathroom off the guest room.

“I do have neighbors,” I remind him, since he’s left the bathroom door ajar.

“Oops. I better be a quiet little crooner.” But his next line about getting married doesn’t come out at a lower volume.

“You’re too loud.” I toss an extra pillow from the closet onto the bed in the guest room.

“Let a drunk man sing while he pisses, will you?”

I roll my eyes. “Plastered, Erik. You’re plastered.”

“And sloshed. Don’t forget sloshed. I am most definitely sloshed.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Oops. I pissed on the floor.”

I grit my teeth. “You did not. You’re thirty-three, not a fucking uni student with shite aim.”

“My aim was top-notch in uni,” he calls out in a sing-song voice. He flushes, washes his hands, and emerges, looking victorious as he thrusts his arms in the air. “I did it. One minute and thirteen seconds. That’s a bloody record piss. I told you I’m a champion racehorse.”

I laugh because he’s so ridiculous. “Yes, Erik. Good on you. You pissed like a racehorse, as predicted. Now, can you please get your drunk arse to bed right now?” I point to the mattress.

After Erik’s ludicrous suggestion that Elise marry me, he proceeded to order a round of shots for the three of us, drink the trio himself, then propose to every woman at the pub. At that point, Elise called an Uber, and we dragged him out of the bar to wait for the Peugeot. Wily thing, Erik slipped into the corner market, grabbed a bouquet of flowers, slapped twenty euros in the paw of the cashier, and presented them to Elise.

“You’ll say yes to me, won’t you, love? American women are so much more trustworthy than the IKEA ladies,” he’d said, slumping onto her shoulder once we piled into the car.

“Half-American,” she’d added with a smile.

“I like half and half in my coffee. Do you?”

She’d laughed. “Of course.”

“Which half of you isn’t American?”

She tapped her stomach. “I have a very French appetite,” she’d said, then winked at me.

Now here we are at my flat, where she’s waiting in the living room. I told her she didn’t have to come along, but at that point, we were all sort of in this together, so I didn’t put up a protest when she stayed to the bitter end.

These are not the circumstances I had in mind when I pictured getting her back to my flat.

With Erik giving off fumes of Patron, he flops onto the bed, flapping his arms and legs in half circles. “I’m a snow angel, Chris.”

“All you need is snow.”

He sighs happily as he kicks off his shoes. “This is a perfect bed. I was meant to sleep in this bed tonight. I’m so glad my wife turned out to be a conniving bitch because it means I get to sleep in this stellar bed.”

He flips to his belly and buries his face in the soft feather pillow, letting out a contented moan as if he’s making love to the pillow. “Well, hello there, gorgeous.” He raises half his face, glancing at me with one eye. “This pillow is my new wife,” he whispers out of the side of his mouth. “Oh shit. I better propose to her properly.” He props himself up on his elbows, gazing longingly at it. “Hello, pretty pillow. Will you please be my wife? Only you can save my company from that stroppy cow.” He drops his head dramatically and cries out. “That sweet little cow. I’m still in love with her, and she left me instead.”

“I know, Erik. I know, and it sucks royally,” I say, tugging the corner of the duvet and covering him with it. “But get some sleep, okay? We’ll sort it out in the morning.”

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles. “When I wake up, you’ll make it all better for me, right?”

I wince, wishing I could make this pain disappear by morning. Erik flaps his arm around on the cover like a fish out of water, fumbling around for my hand, I think. I smack his palm, and he yanks me close, hugging me. “It’s a bro hug,” he whispers, then laughs at his own bizarre joke. “It really is, Chris. This is the stinking definition of a bro hug.”

I laugh too. “We’ll take a picture and file it with the Oxford Dictionary.”