"Yeah. 'Cause I'm gonna want to f**k you a lot." He enters me and groans, "Oh, this is so good. I'm gonna do this every day after I marry you."
It's all drunken talk so I probably can't pay it any attention, but it still sends shivers down my spine to hear him say things about marrying me and having babies. I have to question if he means what he's saying. After all, he is wasted. How sincere can he possibly be when he's in this kind of shape? There's only one way to tell—see what he says when he's sober.
He doesn't mention marriage or babies the next day. Or the next. I'm beginning to think he doesn't remember our discussion at all. Sure. I have no idea what I'd say if he asked me for real, but it pisses me off that he hasn't brought it up once. It's like the whole conversation didn't happen.
Maybe he doesn't have a recollection. He was definitely wasted. But I want him to remember saying those things to me. I want him to say them again when he's not shitfaced—even if I'm not sure what my response would be.
We're back in Nashville and I have two days before I return to the studio with the band. That means we only have two weeks before Jack Henry goes home. I don't want him to go. I wish he could stay here with me forever, but time isn't our friend. It never has been. Our moments together are always the grains of sand falling through the hourglass. A few months here. Another month there. I'm sick of having time restraints placed on this relationship like we have an expiration date.
It's Saturday morning and we're lounging on the couch. Jack Henry's head is in my lap while I'm reading my latest romance novel and I'm running my fingers through his hair. I know how much he loves it. He's relaxed, eyes closed, and I suspect he may have drifted off until he asks, "What do you want to do today?"
I don't want to do anything but be here with him without any distractions. "This."
"And tonight?"
Same thing. "A lot more of this. Is that okay?"
"Suits me." He reminds me of a dog lying on its back, getting a good petting.
"Going back to work will cut in on our together time." There. I said it.
"I'm not excited about that."
Neither of us has mentioned the tick of the clock, but that doesn't mean we should continue to act like it doesn't exist. "Two weeks," I sigh. "It's going to fly and be over before we know it."
"I know. What are we gonna do when that day gets here? Because it's coming sooner than we'd like."
"I don't know."
He opens his eyes and looks at me. "It will kill me to leave here without you."
I put my hand on his face and stroke the scruff I've come to love so much. "It will kill me to watch you leave me."
"So that's where we're at?" he asks. "We want to be together but don't have a solution for how we'll make that happen?"
I don't answer because I don't want to admit the truth. I wish I hadn't said anything because it's too hard to face. I prefer to pretend I'm not looking at losing him again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It's been days since our Vegas marriage talk incident. I add the term incident because it wasn't really a talk. It was me drunk and spouting off about how I wanted to marry Laurelyn and have babies with her.
Not cool, Jack. No woman wants a drunken proposal. I must think of a better way to do it—something romantic that she'll love and want to tell our kids about for years to come.
But the proposal is moot if I can't convince her to walk away from this life, spending three-quarters of the year riding on a tour bus with a bunch of dudes, performing in a different city every night. That's not the life she should have. She should be with me starting our lives together so I can give her the family she wants.
I bought an engagement ring for Laurelyn today. I thought it would be difficult—maybe I'd even find myself short of breath or close to passing out—but it was really easy. I guess when it's right, you know it. I have no doubt I made the perfect choice for her.
But it all means nothing if I don't have the perfect plan for asking her to be my wife.
And I don't have a plan today. Or the next day. Or even a week later.
And now we're down to eight days. Our time together is running out and I have to come up with something fast. It's Saturday night and I take her out for dinner to one of Nashville's finest restaurants—or so I'm told. I really have no idea. I'm out of my element here. This isn't the proposal I'd have for her if we were back home. I'd take her to the beach house in New Zealand and have it covered in candles and fresh flowers. And afterward, we'd make love in our favorite bedroom where the sheer fabric drapes around and separates us from the rest of the world.
I didn't think I would be nervous, but I am. Something about carrying this ring around in my pocket all week has shaken my confidence. I'm terrified of everything—afraid she'll say no, she'll choose this life over one with me, refuse to leave her dysfunctional mother and father. Maybe this doubt is natural, something all blokes go through when they're about to pop the big question.
I called ahead with instructions for seating and they did a great job of granting my request. We're seated in the perfect spot, isolated in a booth in an alcove. It feels like we're the only people in the restaurant other than the staff. I think this seating for two was created for such things.
"What's wrong with you tonight?"
Am I that transparent? "Nothing. What makes you think something's wrong?"
She reaches across the table and places her hand on my forehead the way my mum does. "You don't look like you feel well. Are you sick?"
"I feel fine," I lie. My stomach feels like it has bats for contents.
"If you don't feel well, we can go home," she offers as she moves her palms to my cheeks. "You look flushed."
That's her mothering instinct taking over, and it reassures me that she's the perfect woman to be my wife and mother of my children. I take her hand from my face and kiss her palm. "I'm fine. Stop worrying."
As we finish eating, I know the time for my proposal is approaching. I'm on my third glass of wine but warn myself to cool it because Laurelyn won't be accepting of another drunk proposal.
I don't want to just blurt out, "Marry me," like I did in Vegas. I want to ease into it and what better way than to bring up me leaving. "We only have eight days before I leave."
"I hate our stupid time restraints," she sneers as she pushes around the last bite of her dessert. "Our time together is always a ticking time bomb. I hate it so much."
"I don't want to leave without you."