Same Time Next Year(5)

Someday.”

I nod. She’s right. I won’t let it be anything but solid.

Traditionally, women are expected to dream of their weddings. But I’ve been thinking of mine since my oldest sister got married a decade ago.

I want that moment, surrounded by family and friends, where I commit to love and protect someone my entire life. I want the person I’m marrying to know I mean it. Then I want to spend my life proving myself to them. I just haven’t met a woman that I could picture walking toward me in a white dress. Yet.

Liar.

My ears burn when I remember how many nights I’ve spent lying in bed, beating off while imagining Britta holding a giant bouquet of flowers, a long white train trailing after her. Or holding out her hand so I can slide a ring onto her finger.

An embarrassing number of times.

What self-respecting man jerks off to a wedding?

“I guess . . . I think marriage is an honor. Someone putting that much faith in you and believing you can rise to the occasion is a rare thing. You know?”

“Of course, that is . . . a beautiful idea.” She can’t quite hide her skepticism, but I can’t tell if she’s skeptical of me or the overall concept.

“It’s just not for me.”

It occurs to me that I sound like I’m trying to talk her into the idea, which wasn’t my intention, as much as I would like her to consider it.

Consider me. “I’m well aware you’re saying no, Britta. You don’t have to let me down easy.”

“Great. Okay.” She lets out a halting breath, twisting that ring again.

“Will you . . . pay someone else? Or was I your only last-ditch possibility?”

Pay someone else?

What is she talking about?

I never had any plans to pay a woman to marry me, even if doing so could mean staying in Connecticut long enough to get called up to the professional development league. Did Bryce tell her that? Before I can question her meaning, Britta keeps going. “I’m not saying yes, obviously.

I’m mostly just curious. If . . . if you had someone else lined up.”

All I can do is answer the question. This was a wild suggestion made by one of my teammates this afternoon. The idea of marrying Britta was incredibly tempting, and hearing someone say it out loud made my heart hammer like a motherfucker, but I never actually expected it to happen.

“There’s no one else.”

Does she look relieved, or is that wishful thinking? “How much were you willing to pay me?” She tilts her head. “On the totally far-fetched chance that I was game for a green card marriage. Which I’m not.”

I’m a very honest man. I’m also a man who sees an avenue to the goal

—and takes it.

I’m shocked to realize . . . she’s not completely against this. Marrying me. I can see it in her eyes. I’ve got a one in a million shot—but it’s a better one than I had walking in here. Is it deceptive to pretend like my plan was to pay her all along? Slightly. But maybe offering her money in exchange for her help is what I should have done in the first place.

Why else would she fake marry me?

This could be the missing piece.

I might have a minuscule chance to stay in Bridgeport and be married to Britta.

Am I dreaming?

“What kind of number were you hoping for?” I ask.

She processes that question quietly, her gaze tracking around the small office. “Well, I could come in as a partner on Sluggers for fifty thousand—”

“Really? That’s exactly what I was going to offer you.”

“Really.” She jolts forward slightly in her seat. “Fifty thousand dollars?”

I desperately try to swallow the taste of acid in my mouth. I do not like lying to this girl. Also, if she’d said a million dollars, I probably would have figured out a way to take out a loan. She’s that amazing—and she’s worth a lot more than $50K. I just don’t have millions to my name yet—and maybe I never will, unless I find a way into the NHL. “Yeah. Fifty.” I can’t stop myself from soaking up the opportunity to find out more about her. Up to this point, she has kept most of our conversations surface level. “I didn’t realize you wanted to become an owner here.”

“Well. Maybe that’s . . . maybe I’m not qualified. I don’t know.” Her cheeks are turning pink. She’s so cute, I’m not going to survive the night.

“It has just been my home for a long time. My mom worked here when I was a kid. I used to do my homework on the bar after school while she cut up limes and married the liquor bottles. Once I got older, I started helping the cook plate food and running it to tables. And then my mom . . .” A shadow flickered in her eyes. “Sometimes she didn’t feel like working, and I just kind of . . . stepped in. This place has stuck around for me and . . .”

She shakes herself, like she’s said too much. “I’ve always planned to make Pablo an offer once I got the money together. I just expected it to be years from now.”

Am I actually beginning to feel hopeful about this? Is there a chance I could end up married to the girl I’ve been borderline obsessed with for a year? “Maybe you don’t have to wait that long.”

Several beats pass while she studies me. Thoughtfully.

“Maybe.” She puts air into her cheek and lets it out. “What would be the terms?”