whisk the mixture. “It’s science, and science keeps me grounded. Experimenting is satisfying when the results are pleasing. Even when they aren’t, the process of the experiment is interesting.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She whisked, sniffed, narrowed her own eyes, added a little something more.
Pretty as a picture, he thought, with her hair still a little damp from the shower and pulled back in a short, glossy brown ponytail. She’d put on a sleeveless shirt of quiet gray and jeans that rolled up into casual cuffs just above her knees.
One of her nines sat at easy reach on the counter by the back door.
Her face, those wide green eyes, stayed so sober, so serious, as she put the potatoes into a large bowl, poured the experimental mixture over them, reached for a wooden spoon.
“Marry me, Abigail.”
She dropped the spoon. Bert sauntered over to sniff at it politely.
“Well, that just popped out,” he said, when she just stared at him.
“You were joking.” She picked up the spoon, set it in the sink, lifted another from a pottery sleeve. “Because I’m cooking, and it’s a domestic area.”
“I’m not joking. I’d figured to set the scene a lot better when I asked you. That moonlight you want, flowers, maybe some champagne. A picnic’s what I had in mind. A moonlight picnic up at the spot you like with the view of the hills. But I’m sitting here, looking at you, and it just popped out.”
He came around the counter, took the spoon, set it aside so he could take both her hands. “So marry me, Abigail.”
“You’re not thinking clearly. This isn’t something we can consider, much less discuss, particularly when my situation remains in flux.”
“Things are always in flux. Not this,” he added. “I swear to you we’ll end this, we’ll fix this. But there’s always going to be something. And I think now’s the perfect time, before it’s ended, before it’s fixed, because we should be able to promise each other when things outside aren’t perfect.”
“If it goes wrong—”
“Then it goes wrong. We don’t.”
“Marriage …” She drew her hands free, used them to stir the coating on the potatoes. “It’s a civil contract broken at least half the time with another document. People enter into it promising forever, when in reality—”
“I’m promising you forever.”
“You can’t
“I believe.”
“You—you’ve just moved in. Just hung clothes in the closet.”
“Noticed that, did you?”
“Yes. We’ve known each other less than three months.” She got out a casserole—and busy, busy, busy— scooped and poured the coated potatoes into it. “We have a very difficult situation to address. If you feel strongly about the subject, and continue to feel strongly, I’d be willing to discuss our views on the matter at some more rational time.”
“Delay is an excuse.”
She slammed the casserole into the oven, whirled on him. “You think it’s clever to throw my own words back at me.”
“I think it’s apt.”
“And why do you make me lose my temper? I don’t like to lose my temper. Why don’t you lose yours?”
“I don’t mind getting pissed.” He shrugged, picked up his lemonade again. “I’m not right at the moment. I’m more interested in the way you’re twisting yourself into knots because I love you and I want to marry you.”
“I’m not twisting myself into knots. I’ve very clearly given you my opinion on marriage, and—”
“No, you very clearly gave me your mother’s opinion.”
Very carefully, she picked up a cloth towel, wiped her hands. “That was uncalled for.”
“I don’t think so, and it wasn’t said to hurt you. You’re giving me cold logic and statistics. That’s your mother’s way.”
“I’m a scientist.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re also a giving, caring woman. One who wants moonlight and wildflowers. Tell me what that part of you wants, what that part of you feels, not what your mother pushed into your head as long as she could.”
“How can this be so easy for you?”
“Because you’re the one. Because I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for you. I want a lifetime with you, Abigail. I want a home with you, family with you. I want to make children with you, raise them with you. If you truly don’t want any of that with me, I’ll give you the best I’ve got, and hope you change your mind. I just need you to tell me you don’t want it.”
“I
“But?”
“I don’t know! How can anyone think when they feel so much?”
“You can. You’ve got that big brain to go along with that big heart. Marry me, Abigail.”
He was right, of course. She could think. She could think of what her life had been like without him, and what it would be if she shoved those feelings down and relied only on the flat chill of logic.
“I couldn’t put my real name on a marriage license.”
He cocked his brows. “Well, in that case, forget it.”
The laugh rushed out of her. “I don’t want to forget it. I want to say yes.”
“So say yes.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes, felt dizzy with delight. “Yes,” and threw her arms around him.
“This is right,” he murmured, turned his lips to her damp cheek. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.” He drew her back to kiss her lips, her other cheek. “My mother says that women cry when they’re happy because they’re so filled with the feeling they want to let it out, share it. And teardrops spread that happiness.”
“It feels true. I hope the potatoes turn out well.”
On a laugh, he dropped his brow to hers. “You’re thinking about the potatoes? Now?”
“Because you asked me to marry you when I was creating the recipe. If it comes out well, it’ll be a very special one. We’ll pass the story to our children.”
“If they suck, we can still pass the story on.”
“But we won’t enjoy the potatoes.”
“Jesus, I really love you.” He squeezed her until she gasped.
“I never believed I would have this, any of this, and now I have so much. We’re going to make a life together, and create a family. We’re mates.” She stepped back, gripped his hands. “And more. We’re going to merge our lives. It’s amazing that people do. They remain individuals, with their own makeup, and still they become and function as a single unit. Yours, mine, but also, and most powerfully, ours.”
“It’s a good word, ‘ours.’ Let’s use it a lot.”
“I should go out and pick our lettuce for our salad so we can have our dinner.”
“We’s another good word. We’ll go out.”
“I like that better.” She started to turn for the door, went still as her thoughts aligned. “Mated. Merged.”
“If you want to mate and merge again, better turn down those potatoes.”
“Not piggybacked, not layered or attached. Integrated. Merged. Separate makeups—individual codes—but merged into one entity.”
“I don’t think you’re talking about us anymore.”
“It’s the answer. A blended threat, yes, I’d tried that, but it has to be more—different than combining. It has to be
“Have at it. I can handle dinner. Except I don’t know when to take those potatoes out.”
“Oh.” She looked at the clock, calculated. “Mix and turn them in another fifteen minutes. They should be done thirty minutes after that.”
