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Chapter Twenty-Seven

A urora

“What are we doing? Tate asks, stretching out beside me on his bed.

“Rotting.”

“ Rotting .” He tests the words on his tongue. “What the hell does rotting mean?”

“It means we rot.”

He makes a face. “Which means what?”

“It means we’re going to lie here and do nothing. No effort. We’ll get up to go to the bathroom and refill drinks. That’s it. Think of it as if you’re charging your batteries.”

He grabs his cock and shakes it. “My batteries don’t charge unless I’m plugged in.”

I laugh as I curl up next to him.

We’ve spent every day together for the past couple of weeks, and every day it feels a little more like we’ve been doing it forever.

We have our routine—Tate gets up an hour before I do and wakes me before he leaves.

I usually get back to the house before him, so I start dinner, and he comes home at the end and helps me finish the recipe.

For someone who hasn’t lived with anyone before, at least as far as I know, Tate has adjusted very quickly. Surprisingly, he’s easy to live with, too. Not that I’ve moved in—that would be way too fast.

His circle has also been kind to me. We had dinner with Renn and Blakely one night, and his brother Ripley swung by to borrow something. He was a slightly different version of Tate, and we got along great.

So apart from Tate’s not-so-subtle suggestions about getting married, it’s been pretty perfect.

Work, on the other hand, is a different story. I’m not sure what the hell is going on there. Energetically working toward new goals and a new direction has just … stopped. Tally and I have very little on our plates. If anyone knows what’s happening, nobody’s saying a word.

Not even Tate.

Shouldn’t he still be leading us and overseeing the department's functions? It’s so … weird. And I don’t know what to make of it.

“What do you think about taking a vacation next week?” he asks. “Let’s get through the weekend, then spend a few days away—just the two of us.”

My chest constricts as I read between the lines.

I’ve been dancing around this for the past few days, too.

Tate has been finagling a way to get me alone.

He’s tried to take me back to Columbus for nostalgic purposes .

I mentioned wanting to see Costa Rica, and he offered to sort that for me immediately.

He even booked a house in Sedona, Arizona, but I made him get a refund.

I know what he’s trying to do, and I’m trying to avoid it like the plague.

“How do you think we have time to get away for a trip like that?” I ask.

“Charlie just tendered his official resignation this week after his mom’s passing.

We’ve had to mothball the rebrand for reasons I still don’t understand, and I feel like all the work that Tally and I have put in over the past couple of months has been for nothing, and nobody cares. ”

“I care.”

“Do you, though?”

“Of course,” he says, stroking my back. “I care about everything that affects you.”

“Then why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“Because I’m under an NDA at the moment. I’ll explain it all as soon as I can.” He bends down and kisses my forehead. “It’ll be worth it. Just hold on for a bit longer.”

I sigh, shoving away from him and sitting up.

“My mom called today,” he says. “She’s flying in tomorrow for my party and can’t wait to meet you.”

“I’m excited to meet her. Your sister’s family will be there, too, right?”

He nods, clearing his throat.

If this week hadn’t been so heavy at work, I might be looking forward to meeting Tate’s entire family tomorrow. Because, in theory, it’s a beautiful gesture. In reality, though, it’s terrifying.

What if they don’t like me? What if Carys is cold and unfriendly? I couldn’t blame her. What if his mother thinks I’m too old for her baby boy? That wouldn’t be a blamable offense, either.

And God knows what Tate’s told them. He seems to be telling the world that I’m Mrs. Tate Brewer. And every time that happens, every time he casts a joke out into our little bubble about our “marriage,” I react viscerally.

I know I’ve worked hard to get through the trauma of my last marriage, and I know I’m a stronger woman now, but the idea of leaping from one marriage into another so quickly freaks me out.

It’s not him that’s the problem. He’s as close to perfection as you can get.

I’m afraid to say this directly because I might lose him. He might finally believe I’m not worth the trouble.

But not saying anything doesn’t lend itself to healthy communication, which can then lead to an unhealthy relationship. So I’m royally screwed either way I go.

“Can I talk to you about something?” I ask.

“Sure.”

I sigh, not wanting to discuss this, but not seeing a way out, either.

“I had two people come up to me today and congratulate me on my engagement,” I say. “Because we are getting married, apparently.”

He smirks. “You better not be marrying anyone else.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is it then?”

I hang my head. This is going to be just as tricky as I feared.

“First, we aren’t engaged,” I say. “So it makes it super awkward for me to try to backtrack and explain that I don’t know where they heard that, but it’s false.”

“Would it be easier just to get engaged?”

“No.”

He pretends to focus on the muted television across the room.

I nearly laugh because his pout is the biggest I’ve ever seen.

But I hold strong and manage not to crack.

This sweet, precious man has put marriage on a pedestal, and I truly hate that I’m the one attempting to remove it from its perch.

Because when marriage falls, it can shatter.

And those sharp pieces cut you to the core.

“What would be easier is if you stopped telling people that,” I say. “Then I wouldn’t have to defend myself.”

“I didn’t realize that someone wanting to be with you was offensive.”

I groan. “Please don’t pick a fight with me.”

“I’m not,” he says. “But I feel like we’re just treading water pointlessly when we could be doing so many huge, fun things.”

“Maybe I’m fine with treading water for a bit. It’ll make my muscles stronger to carry the big things later.”

“You don’t need to be strong. I’ll carry everything for you.”

I run my hand down his arm, feeling the ripples of his muscles under my palm.

I’ve avoided having a frank version of this conversation for days. But each day, I feel more pressure to fold—to acquiesce to what Tate wants me to do. Namely, make him my whole personality.

That’s what it feels like, anyway.

Spending time with Tate Brewer is one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I wouldn’t trade it or him for anything or anyone. And I hope to spend the rest of my life at his side.

I’ve fallen hard for him. I’ve fallen in love with him. And I never thought I’d be on this side of love again. Not in the foreseeable future, anyway.

But he’s so charismatic, so capable, so overwhelming that it makes it almost impossible to keep my head above water.

I need a minute to breathe without the air scented with his cologne. And I need him to be okay with that. I need him to hear what I need right now.

Because to date, he’s been extremely good at that.

Please hear me, Tate. Please know this will be better for us.

“Since the Raptors are still on hold and I just sit in the office with nothing to do, I was thinking about taking a couple of days off next week,” I say.

“Sure. What do you want to do?”

I shrug. “I was thinking about spending time with Jamie. She mentioned that she’s struggling, and if I’m not going to be doing any work with the Raptors, I’d rather be doing something productive, if that makes sense.”

He nods, but I’m not sure it makes sense to him. Oh, the comprehension of a billionaire who doesn’t need to work.

“I’d still be in town if the Raptors stuff starts up again,” I say.

“For sure.” He pulls me in for a hug. “Whatever makes you happy, gorgeous.”

I smile against him.

“You know I don’t mean anything harmful when I tell people you’re going to be my wife, right?” he asks. “I just feel like I’ve hit the jackpot.”

“I feel that way, too.” I press a kiss to his shoulder and sit upright.

“Really?”

“Yeah, but if I’m being honest, it’s starting to overwhelm me a little bit.”

He flinches. “It is?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m feeling pressured,” I say.

“Are you saying you don’t want me talking about us to anyone?”

There’s a pain buried in his blues that breaks my heart.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” I say. “Look, Tate, I’ve been candid with you about not being sure about marriage. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you?—”

“You don’t want to marry me?”

I sigh. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, you sort of did.”

I sit crisscross applesauce, facing him, trying to remain calm and in control.

“I said that I’m not sure about marriage. In general,” I say. “Not specifically to you.”

He scoots up until his back is against the headboard. “I thought we were past this.”

“No, you got past it because you ignored me.”

“What are you saying?” he asks, his jaw tensing.

I take his hand in mine. “I’m saying that I’ve been very clear about being unsure about marriage or, if I decide to do it, when that’ll happen.”

“All I want is you,” he says, brushing my hair out of my face.

“All I want is you, too. But you must understand that I don’t want to do it on your timeline.”

He drops his hands and shakes his head. “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to want to be mine.”

“I am yours. Can’t I be yours without a ring on my finger?”

“Can’t you just wear a ring and be done with it?”

I take a long, deep breath in and blow it out before I lose my cool.

“Marriage to you seems simple.” We haven’t even said I love you. “I know you said your parents didn’t have a good marriage, but you still seem to have it on a pedestal.”

He studies me, but I have no idea if what I’m saying is landing or not.

I scooch closer. “Marriage can be hard. We’ve only spent five minutes together, and we haven’t …

” I pause. I’m not going to mention love in this space.

Not when I’m angry and he’s not hearing me.

“I think we need more time together before we discuss getting married,” I say.

“Because when I think of marriage, it’s tainted with the feelings of losing my independence, of giving up control.

Being told what to do and not having an equal voice in things. ”

And I can’t do that again. I won’t.

He narrows his eyes.

“I’m not eager to do that again, Tate.”

“So you don’t trust me?”

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, nodding like he’s pissed. “So I waited my whole life for the one girl who I want to spend my life with, and then I get told to hang on. She might want to be with you. She might not. She might have your children. She might not.”

“Why can’t I just have you?” I ask, holding my arms out to the sides. “Why do I have to come with a piece of paper that a judge stamps?”

“Why can’t I just have you ?” he asks.

“You can! Just not at warp speed!”

He looks at me like I’m out of my mind.

I don’t know if I’m tired from the week, or if I’m stressed by being hounded by this question every day. I might just be pissed that I’m dealing with feeling out of control yet again.

“I’m not saying I won’t ever want to marry you, or that I don’t want to have your children, because I actually fucking do,” I say, my voice rising.

“But I want to do it on my time. I’m sick and tired of having to make my life’s decisions on someone else’s clock.

If I marry you someday, I don’t want to have any lingering trauma in the back of my mind that I carry into our union. I need to heal, Tate.”

His face falls.

“I told you this from the beginning,” I say. “I told you I wanted a one-night stand so this didn’t happen. I didn’t leave you my name or number—why? So this didn’t happen .”

“Well, it happened.”

“What about you telling me you’d be patient? Are you tired of waiting?” A swell of emotion lurches up my throat. I swallow it back as best as I can, but my voice is hoarse. “Did you finally decide that I’m more trouble than I’m worth?”

He doesn’t move as I climb off the bed because I won’t let him see me cry.

I’ll never let a man see me cry again.

I make quick work of getting dressed and am jogging down the steps when Tate comes out of his room.

“Aurora,” he says, from the landing.

I pause, stopping and looking up at him.

The pain in his eyes is the same I feel ripping through me. There’s no point in making it worse.

I tuck my chin, bolt to my car, and go home.