Jasmine Guillory - The Proposal

She looked at him sideways.

“Or, she’ll be on your ass even more because she’ll be so excited about the one baby that she’ll want more.”

He held his finger up to her lips.

“Shhhhh, don’t say that. She knows it’s going to be a long time before that happens. I have too many other people to take care of right now. I’m just glad that I’m back on the Eastside. I can be closer when the baby is born, as well as for things like killing spiders—real and imaginary—late at night for Angela.”

She took the last sip of her wine and smiled at him.

“She’s lucky she has you. I was lucky that I had you around tonight, too.” She sat up straight and put her feet on the floor. “Do you have to be at work super early in the morning? It’s getting late.”

That sure sounded like his cue to go. Damn it. He looked at his watch and barely noticed what it said.

“It’s getting pretty close to my bedtime.” He put his hand on her arm. “Are you going to be okay tonight?”

Her eyes shot to the door, but she nodded anyway.

“Of course. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.”

He’d been on the point of standing up. Instead, he settled back down on the couch.

“Well, when you say it like that, I’m worried about you. Do you want me to . . .” He was going to say, “Do you want me to stay?” but that sounded like he was inviting himself into her bed. And while he’d love to get an invitation there, he didn’t want to look like even more of an asshole than he already had tonight. “Do you want me to stay until one of your friends can get here?”

“I feel ridiculous even thinking about doing that, but . . . maybe. Courtney has to be up at the crack of dawn, so I don’t want to call her. I can call Dana, though. I don’t think she’s filming tomorrow. Oh God, that reminds me! Instagram!” She pulled her phone out of her pocket.

He had no idea what the hell that meant in this context.

“Instagram?” he asked.

“Fisher Instagrams his whole life, for ‘branding’ and his fans or whatever. If he’s updated in the last few hours or so, at least I’ll know what he’s up to.”

She typed something into the search bar on her phone while she talked.

“I blocked him on everything, so he can’t contact me, but if I’m logged out, I can still see . . . oh my God, Carlos. Look at this! He’s in Vegas!”

She turned her phone around so he could see the video of Fisher dancing terribly at some club. He let out a shout of laughter.

“Wow.” He scooted closer to her so they could both watch. My God, she smelled good. He wanted to stay this close to her on the couch for a long time. “Is this guy for real? Play it again.”

She played his video four or five more times, and they laughed harder every time.

“This is almost as good as the middle-finger ring picture,” she said, still laughing.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

“What middle-finger ring picture?”

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t show you. You and Angela left before we looked at his texts. Look at this picture he sent me.”

She scrolled through her phone and pulled up a photo of a blurry middle finger with a blue engagement ring on it. He recoiled.

“Oh my God. He seriously texted you this?”

As she’d scrolled to the photo, he’d seen flashes of a few of the texts Fisher had sent her after the proposal. That fucking bastard.

“I know. I know.” She was still looking at the photo, and not at him. “You don’t have to say anything. I have terrible judgment in men; we all know that now, but this is really incredible, right?”

He stood up. He was glad for her that Fisher was out of town, but now he had no more excuses to stay here.

“It’s so incredible that I need to go home now to process that. And also because I have to be up, awake, and ready for patients at eight thirty a.m. tomorrow.”

She walked him to the door.

“Sorry for keeping you up, and thanks again.”

She reached out to hug him, and he pulled her in tight. Her body nestled up against his felt so good. He wanted to hold on for much longer and forced himself to let go.

“Glad I could be here. Good night. And if you want to stack a chair behind that door after I leave, feel free. No one will know about it but you.”

She laughed and reached up to kiss him on the cheek.

“I just might do that, thanks.”

Chapter Five

. . . . . . .

Nik shut the door behind Carlos and closed her eyes.

Maybe, she thought, if she stood there for a few minutes with her forehead against this door, it would magically take away the far too many feelings going through her head right now.

She gave it about two minutes, but it didn’t work. So she flopped back down on the couch and pulled the blanket over her face.

Why hadn’t he offered to stay with her that night, Fisher or no Fisher? She would have said “No, you’re too busy, I don’t want to inconvenience you more than I have,” and he would have offered again, and she would have said, “Are you sure?” and he would have said, “Of course,” and she would have said, “You really don’t have to, but . . .” and he would have said, “I want to!” and then she would have tackled him on the couch. That would have been a much better ending to tonight than her being on her couch alone feeling like an idiot.

Worse, he hadn’t even tried to kiss her! She’d given him every damn opportunity—she had practically shoved her boobs in his face—and he’d been all smiling and talking about his cousin and his patients and blah blah blah. Sure, she’d asked him about those things and hadn’t asked him, “Do you like my boobs in this shirt, Carlos? I grew them just for you,” but he should have gotten that that was what she’d meant .

Ugh, and she hadn’t even invited him upstairs on some sort of “come look at my etchings” pretext. She’d wanted him for—gag—protection. When she’d unlocked her front door, she’d been so grateful that he was there. She’d felt actually comforted by his presence. Even when he’d ordered her around in a way that she would normally hate, she’d still been so relieved that he was there.

How humiliating. She, Nikole Paterson, who prided herself on being self-sufficient and self-reliant and an Independent Woman, et cetera, et cetera, had caved under the slightest amount of pressure and called on a man to come save her. And she’d almost thrown herself at him in the process.

Okay, this was getting way out of hand. Sure, her fingers were dying to run themselves through his thick dark hair, and her hand had lingered a little too long on his bicep tonight, and every time he curved those inviting lips of his into a smile, she wanted to pull him closer. But a rebound with Carlos was a terrible idea, remember? She neither wanted, nor needed, a rebound with anyone! That was why she’d hinted it was time for Carlos to go home. Men were trouble. She’d learned that over and over again. Plus, Carlos was a doctor, and she was done with doctors. They thought they were better than everyone else.

She’d never forget that time when her digital recorder had failed unbeknownst to her during an important interview and she’d burst into angry tears about it to Justin. He’d said, “Come on, Nikole. It’s just an interview with an actor; it’s no big deal. Unlike in my job, no one’s going to die because of a little mistake.” She was still mad she’d stayed with him for another year after that.

She shouldn’t have let Carlos come over in the first place. Even though he’d seemed nice and, yes, she had wished in a weak moment that he’d ended up in her bed, he still clearly thought that she was a helpless woman who needed him to protect her. He’d joked about that, but was it really a joke?