Debra Webb - The Marriage Prescription

Instantly, Beth regressed to the summer she’d been twelve and determined she could beat Zach at anything he did—including eating her mother’s lemon meringue pie.

She hated lemon pie to this day. The mere sight of it made her stomach queasy.

Beth firmed her resolve and booted the past back where it belonged, in some rarely visited corner of her mind. Her good eating habits would not be undermined by Zach Ashton. “Excuse me,” she said to the waitress efficiently making her way around the table. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d like a salad, please. Dressing on the side.”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE you missed out on Josie’s chicken-fried steak.” Zach chuckled as he pulled out onto Main Street, headed in the direction of home. “It was awesome.” He glanced at his silent passenger. She looked even more beautiful by moonlight. Forcing his gaze straight ahead, he blinked away her lingering image. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking that way, but he couldn’t get his body and mind to cooperate with each other.

“It’s called being health-conscious,” Beth explained pointedly. “You should try it. After all, you’re not getting any younger.”

A brow notched up his forehead and he stole another quick look in her direction. “Ouch,” he returned. “Surely one evening of eating on the edge won’t drive the final nail in my coffin.” A frown furrowed across his brow. “When did you get so uptight about every little thing anyway?”

She waved him off. “Typical male thinking, Ashton,” she said irritably. “You think because you play the occasional game of racquetball and pound out a few miles on the treadmill once or twice a week that you’re immune to the effects of aging.”

He couldn’t believe this. Was she insinuating that he was old? “What has my age got to do with anything?” he demanded, irritation gnawing its way through his composure. He ran a couple miles every single day. Did his time at the gym three times a week as well.

She flared her palms impatiently. “Games, Ashton,” she snapped. “You’re still playing your immature little games. You thought if you ate it, I would. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t throw down the gauntlet back there with that first forkful of potatoes. Remember the lemon pie? You were always trying to prove you were better because you were older and a boy.”

“A boy?” He darted another look at his lovely, albeit confusing, passenger. A grin stretched across his face at her stiff posture. She was furious. At what, he couldn’t be certain. Surely they could put the past behind them if that’s what the problem was. “I thought we’d already established that we’re both adults now.”

She folded her arms firmly over her chest. “Well, at least one of us is.”

He braked to a stop at a red light. Was she accusing him of being immature just because he’d eaten his steak and potatoes? He ignored that little voice that told him she was right about the challenge. It was instinct. Whenever he was around Beth, he tried his level best to treat her like one of the guys. It was the only way to protect himself from doing something completely stupid—like kissing her. The mere thought made his muscles harden, some more than others.

“Would you care to elaborate on that innuendo?” he prodded, determined to get to the bottom of her unreasonable behavior once and for all. His mother’s peculiar conduct was more than enough to contend with. He and Beth could at least be civil to each other. “The burden of proof lies with the accuser,” he added when she didn’t answer.

Beth rolled her eyes and huffed. “Don’t use your lawyer talk on me. You know exactly what I mean.”

“You’re saying that one of us isn’t an adult. I just wondered from what basis you drew your conclusions.”

She shifted to face him, one long shapely leg crossed over the other, and totally unaware that her dress had slid up a few more inches, showing off a little more tanned thigh. Zach’s mouth parched as he sneaked a second look.

“Well, let’s see,” she began, ticking off the list on her fingers. “There’s the cherry-red sports car and the GQ look.” She shook her head as if what he had was terminal. “Not to mention the immortal male attitude.”

He glared at her, his foot going automatically to the accelerator when the light turned green. “What about my car and the way I dress?” Ire sprouted inside him. Sure he had a little attitude, but what the heck? A guy couldn’t survive in his profession without a pair of brass ones.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug of indifference, or maybe disdain. “I think any man who feels the need to express his insecurities so literally when he hits middle-age is immature.”

Middle-age? Insecurities? He arrowed a glower in her direction. “You think I bought this car because I feel insecure about being closer to forty than thirty?”

She pursed those lush lips and inclined her head in triumph. “Yes, I do.”

Fury hurdled through him. He didn’t bother slowing down for the next light that went from yellow to red before he passed under it.

“I am not,” he said, enunciating each word slowly, precisely, “going through any midlife crisis. I bought this car because I liked it. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my clothes.” He turned onto Hunter Ridge Road. “Or with the occasional meal that includes more than leaves and twigs.”

She smiled patiently, as if completely certain of her assessment. “You date a different woman every weekend. You don’t have time for a social life through the week,” she added, nailing down his personal life in two short sentences. “You tell yourself that there’s plenty of time for marriage and children later. That legitimately explains your single status and leaves you free from having to commit.”

He shook his head. How the hell did she know all that? “What is this? The amateur psychology hour?”

“Am I right?”

Oh, he saw now. This was a trick. She was baiting him to get the answers she wanted. She wanted to know about his personal life—his sex life.

“Am I right?” she repeated, adding extra emphasis to the last word.

“If you want to know how often I have sex, just ask. And besides, what would you call divorcing the man you supposedly loved after five years of commitment?” A four-way stop gave him the opportunity to look directly at her and wait for the answer to his pointed question.

Silence thundered for several excruciatingly long beats.

She wasn’t going to say anything. The dim glow from the dash didn’t allow him to read her eyes completely, but he could see that he’d done what he intended. He had ended what she started. Cut her off at the knees like any good attorney would do. The knowledge gave him no pleasure. In an abrupt epiphany he also realized what he’d given away with his heartless remark—he knew the ink wasn’t even dry on her divorce papers yet. She would know he’d asked about it.

“I’d call it a mistake,” she said finally, her chin quivering slightly.

He held her gaze, hard as that proved in light of the hurt he knew he’d wielded. He wanted to hold her and apologize profusely for what he’d said and whatever the jerk she’d married had done. Disappointment pooled in his gut when he considered her words further. She thought she’d made a mistake. And all this time he’d thought he’d been the one who made the mistake. But then, they weren’t talking about the same mistake.

“The divorce or the marriage?” he asked quietly, unable to help himself from pursuing the subject. He had to know.

She wanted to lie. God, a part of her wanted so badly to deny the truth…to somehow explain it away as something other than a personal failure. The other part of her wanted to hit Zach for even asking.