by Tessa Teevan
Tilting my head, I look up at him. “We’re going to have that, aren’t we?” I murmur sleepily.
He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “We already do. A piece of paper and a ring aren’t going to change that.”
“So, you’re saying we don’t need to get married after all?” I ask, only teasing.
“Woman, it’s just the sentiment, but you better fucking believe we’re getting that piece of paper. I want you to have my name.”
“Ariana Wellington does sound pretty good, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds pretty damn perfect, baby,” he says.
As I settle into him, I wish I had a notepad and a pencil so I could start doodling it like one of those love-struck teenagers in high school.
With sudden clarity, it all hits me at once. The proposal. The wedding planning. The impending happily ever after. I’m getting married in three months to the love of my life.
This is crazy.
This is real.
This is love.
This is my new life. And I wouldn’t change it for the world.
THE NEXT morning, I wake up to find a steaming mug of coffee on the nightstand next to me but no fiancé. We’re going to have a serious talk about this whole leaving-the-bed-before-I’m-awake business. Grinning to myself, I push back the covers and get out of bed. I pick up my mug and go in search of him, following the sounds of rock music. It leads me to his office, where he’s wearing a pair of reading glasses and peering at the screen, looking sexy as hell.
Leaning against the doorframe, I place a hand on my hips and set a glare on my face. “If this union is going to work, we seriously need to discuss our Sunday morning routines. Sundays are lazy days. Days made for cuddling and lovemaking for hours. This is a deal breaker. If you can’t agree to those terms, then we have a severe problem on our hands.”
His eyes darken and he beckons for me to join him behind his desk. Lifting my chin, I refuse to budge from my spot. Heat sizzles between us during our stare down, neither of us giving in. The longer his eyes pierce mine, the more I want to waver and go to him. Just as my resolve is about to break, he pushes his chair back and rises, placing both fists on the desk as he leans towards me.
“If you’d stop sleeping until ten a.m., maybe I’d stay in bed with you,” he growls, but I can see the smile he’s trying to hide.
“Well, if you wouldn’t keep me up all hours of the night, perhaps I wouldn’t be such a sack of lazy bones the next day.”
“Well, excuse me. Would you like to file a complaint? I’d hate to continue such horrendous behavior,” he says in a pretentious tone.
“Of course not. My only complaint is waking up without you. I vaguely recall you having a similar grievance once, and I never did it again. I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”
With a sigh, he sits back in his chair. “Okay, you’ve got me there. Come here,” he says, holding an arm out.
Knowing this game is over, I round the desk and take a seat on his lap, placing my mug on the desk.
He gestures towards the screen. “I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d go ahead and start looking into our trip.”
My nose wrinkles as I peer at the screen. “Our trip? Where are we going?” I ask, completely confused until I see ‘Las Vegas’ on the screen.
“Last night, you said you wanted to elope. I figured, why wait?”
Laughter bubbles up inside me, and I turn to look at him, pressing my forehead to his. “Oh, Branson. You’re too sweet,” I murmur, placing quick pecks on his lips as I shake my head. “But no, we’re not eloping.”
He pulls back, seemingly puzzled. “We’re not? But I thought—”
I cut him off as I place a finger to his lips. “I know what I said, and I love how eager you are to make it happen. Trust me. I’m just as enthusiastic, but I was joking.”
“You were?” he asks, and I can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed.
“Yes. As much as I want to marry you today, I want to have a wedding day. Our wedding day. I want to pick out my dress and walk down the aisle towards you. I want our closest friends and family there. I want to argue for hours over what song we’re going to dance to. We’re spending the rest of our lives together, and as much as the next three months are going to drag, it’ll be so worth it in the end.”
His hand comes up to cup the back of my neck. “If you tell anyone I said this, I’ll deny it, but I want all that, too. It’s all I could think about at Knox’s wedding, how I wished it were ours, and I don’t think I’d be satisfied with eloping.”
“Then it’s settled. A December wedding,” I say, and he nods.
“Plus, I look forward to the moment I stand behind you and slide down the zipper on your dress before making love for the first time to my wife.” His hot breath tickles my neck as he says the last word, sending shivers down my spine.
“I like the sound of that,” I whisper.
“Then I guess we’d better start practicing,” he responds, picking me up and carrying me down the hall before he throws me down on our bed and crawls on top of me. “After all, it is a lazy Sunday.”
Slow, languid, lazy kisses turn to slow, languid, lazy lovemaking, and I make a mental note to include lazy Sundays in my vows. Three more months and then he’s mine forever. What could possibly go wrong?
IT’S BEEN two weeks since I’ve been back to work full time, and it’s kicking my ass. Trying to find a balance between work and home has proven to be difficult. Ariana’s given me the okay to work at home whenever necessary, claiming that she doesn’t mind as long as I don’t go overboard, but I don’t allow myself to bring work home. When I sign off my account at the end of the day, I turn off my business phone and try not to give work another thought. It’s not always easy, but I’m managing and becoming more used to it.
But the last thing I want to think about when I’m with her is work, and I refuse to revert to the man I was before. The one who valued his career above everything else. She’s the most important part of my life, and our marriage will always be number one to me. No CEO title will ever change that. As I begin to delegate my responsibilities, I feel the noose loosen a little around my neck, yet I still feel guilty at the same time.
I’m knee-deep in a new account when I hear a knock on my door, surprised to see my dad sticking his head in my office.
“Son, do you have a minute? I didn’t mean to barge in, but Caroline’s not at her desk and no one answered the phone.”
Glancing at the time, I see that it’s after noon and wince, having lost track of time. “She must be at lunch. Come on in and have a seat.” I set the file aside and sit back. “What’s up?”
He clears his throat. “I just wanted to check in and see how things were going.”
“Things are good. To be honest, since I’ve returned to work, I haven’t been working the same amount of hours that I used to and I’ve had to delegate some duties, but things are running smoothly.” I pull at my tie, hoping my admission doesn’t work against me.
He nods, leaning forward in his chair to place his elbows on his knees. “Good. That’s exactly what I want to hear. Part of being the boss is trusting your subordinates and knowing when to delegate. I was just like you when I was your age. I wanted to take on every account, every role, and every responsibility I could manage. That’s all fine and dandy, but it takes a real businessman to know when it’s time to take a step back and reevaluate how he handles his affairs. And it seems as if you’ve finally learned that.”
“Wait… You don’t mind that I’ve nearly cut my working hours by twenty percent?”
“Hell no, son. You were working too much as it was, but it seemed to be the only thing to keep you grounded, so I let it slide. You do good work, and I trust your judgment. I couldn’t be prouder to call you my son or to have you take over the company.” He pauses, and I swallow hard. “I know you were expecting me to retire sometime soon after you married Megan, but to be honest with you, I ha
ted seeing how your work life was affecting your home life. In retrospect, I should’ve discussed it with you. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently. At the same time, I know I wasn’t ready to pass the torch myself.”
“Are you kidding me? Nothing you could’ve said to me back then would’ve changed anything. Megan and I married for entirely wrong reasons, and whether I’d been with her or by myself, I’d still have thrown myself into my work the way I did. That being said, things have changed. I love the company, I love my career, and I love the work we do. It’s just… I love Ariana more, and I refuse to choose my job over her. I still have my goals and my dreams. They’ve just shifted a little. And as hard at it was, I took a step back and realized that, with the right amount of balance, there’s no reason I couldn’t have both.”
“Balance is the key, Branson, and I’m glad you’ve learned that on your own. You’re going to be an excellent leader,” he tells me, standing up.
“Dad,” I say, and he stops in the doorway, turning to look at me. “Thanks for not giving up on me.”
“I’ve always had faith you’d come around. After all, stubbornness runs in our genes, but you also have your mother’s smarts,” he replies, giving me a grin. “It’s Friday, Branson. Wrap up what you’re doing and head home early for the weekend.”
“What?” I ask, confused.
He laughs. “That file will be there Monday morning. If I have anything to say about it, I won’t be the boss much longer, so take advantage while you can. In fact, do me a favor. Send out a mass email. Everyone’s released two hours early today.”
“What’s gotten into you, old man?”
“I guess I’m in a good mood. Let’s just say…sometimes it’s good to be the boss.” With a parting wink, he slips out the door, and I rest back in my chair, running our conversation through my head.
Everything I’ve ever worked for is at the tip of my fingers, and now, more than ever, I want to prove that I can follow in his footsteps. After sending off the email, which I’m sure will garner much praise, I start to pick up the file, eager to get back to work now that Dad’s practically told me my becoming CEO is right around the corner. And then I remember his words about balance and knowing when to hang things up for the day. Slowly, I close the file and put it into my cabinet, shutting down my computer and locking up for the day.
Just like he said, it’ll be there waiting for me on Monday morning.
I have someone more important waiting on me at home.
“BABY, I’M home!” I shout, excited to start our weekend early.
My dad’s right. Being successful is great and all, but if you don’t have someone to share it with, it’s not quite as fulfilling. Now, I understand all those married men who live for Friday afternoons. Not because they want a few days off—okay, that helps too—but because they get to spend uninterrupted time with their loved ones. After two weeks of normal work hours, I’ve finally begun living for the weekend.
Once I drop off my briefcase in my office, I close the door, vowing not to open it again until Monday morning. I frown when I pass the kitchen and the living room, not seeing Ariana anywhere. When I head to the bedroom to change, I’m surprised to see her in bed, fast asleep. Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s nearly one in the afternoon, and it’s unusual for her to nap.
After quickly changing, I pull back the covers and slide into bed with her. She groans as I pull her into my arms. Her skin feels hot and clammy, and when I lie her down on the pillow, I press my hand to her forehead. She’s burning up, her hair’s a sweaty mess, and she’s completely pale.
“Baby,” I whisper, not wanting to wake her but knowing I need to get her to a doctor.
After I tap her cheeks a few times, her eyes flutter open. She grimaces at the light before her eyes focus on me.
“Branson?” Her voice is meek and quiet. “Is it afternoon already? I had a headache and decided to lie down so I could sleep it off. I didn’t mean to sleep the afternoon away.”
“I came home early, and it looks like it’s a good thing I did.”
She tries to smile, but her lips barely tilt up.
“Does your head still hurt?”
She nods. “My throat, too. I think… I think I might be coming down with something.”
“I think you’ve already come down with something. Let me call the doctor, and we’ll get you checked out.”
“That’s probably a good idea. Thank you, Branson. I’m glad you came home.”
Leaning down to press a kiss against her forehead, I watch as she lies back against the pillow, her eyes fluttering shut.
After getting a cool rag to place on her head, I grab her phone off the nightstand, knowing that, since she was the one to make all our appointments after the accident, she’d most likely have the doctor’s number. When the screen lights up, I’m surprised to see four missed calls. Curiosity gets the better of me, and even though I know I shouldn’t go through her phone, I tell myself that I’m just checking to make sure it’s not someone important trying to get ahold of her.
The call log appears, and my blood boils as soon as I see Benjamin’s name several times in a row. Why the fuck would he be calling her now? And why hasn’t she told me? A moan comes from the bed, and I grimace, knowing that this isn’t the time to deal with why this asshole’s name is appearing on her phone. Even as I make the call to the doctor, a sense of unease washes over me and I have no idea why.
THE DOCTOR determines that Ariana has the flu and gives us a prescription for Tamiflu as well as list of instructions for her. During the entire appointment, she’s lethargic, which the doctor attributes to her fever of 102. He orders me to monitor her fever then sends us on our way.
“Branson, I’m okay. I can walk,” she protests when I place my arm around her and try to help her to the car. “I have the flu. Not a broken leg.” A coughing fit ensues, and she looks up at me sheepishly. “Okay, fine.”
“Come on. Let’s get you home.”
Once I settle her in bed, she doesn’t even protest when I insist she get some rest. Her head barely hits the pillow before her eyes shut and the sound of her breathing changes, indicating that she’s out cold. Leaning against the doorframe, I look at her. She’s pale and vulnerable.
So much for our exciting weekend at home.
The thought makes me feel like a jackass. We’ve spent the majority of our relationship holed up in the house, with her taking care of me, so this is my turn to reciprocate. Finally, I can be the one to take care of her.
Pulling out my phone, I call Mom as I head to the kitchen. As I wait for her to answer, I start looking through the pantry.
“Hey, honey,” Mom’s cheerful voice fills my ear.
“Mom, I need your help,” I say briskly, and I hear her talking to my dad before coming back to the phone.
“What is it, Branson?”
“Ariana has the flu. She has a fever and the doctor says she’s dehydrated. I need to run to the store to get her prescription and some liquids. I need your chicken noodle soup recipe.”
“Oh no. That’s awful. I think I have all the ingredients here. I’ll just pack them up and be right over.”
“No!” I say a little too forcefully. “I mean, no, Mom. She’s been taking care of me all this time. I want to do the same for her. I need to do this.”
With a sigh, she relents. “Okay, honey. I understand. How about I just come sit with her while you’re gone?”
“I appreciate it, Mom, but I think she’ll be okay. She fell asleep as soon as we got home. I won’t be gone long. I’ll leave her a note to let her know where I’m going. If she wakes and needs anything, she knows you’re close.”
“That works. How about I text you the recipe so you have the list right there with you?”
“Sounds perfect. Thanks, Mom.”
“Any time. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
MY HEAD’S throbbing when I wake up, and I can’t stop shivering even thoug
h I feel like a sweaty mess. When I let out a cough, my throat is scratchy, my mouth incredibly dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand and see that it’s nearly eight p.m., and I groan, having slept away have the day.
I was in the living room, on my laptop, looking through job postings, when I started to feel dizzy. The past few days, I’ve felt chilled, and I could tell I was coming down with something, but it seemed to hit me all at once today. I took some ibuprofen and crawled into bed, my body achy all over.
When Branson came home, I was extremely grateful. As much as I didn’t want to leave the bed, I knew that going to the doctor was the best idea, but hell if I didn’t climb right back into bed when we got home.
The room is dark, and there’s no sight of him. I get out of bed and go to his drawers, pulling on a pair of his sweats and slipping a hoodie over my head as I try to stop shivering. In the bathroom, I splash water over my face, wincing at my pale reflection. Dark circles highlight my eyes. My stomach rumbles, which I assume is a good sign, so I dry my face and leave the room to go in search of Branson.
A warm, delicious aroma fills the air, and I follow the sounds of low music into the kitchen. Leaning against the doorframe, I smile at the sight of Branson at the stove, stirring something in a pot as he sings and moves his hips along to the sounds of Adam Levine. It’s reminiscent of the time when he walked in on me scrubbing the floors, and I take a moment to study him. I’m not too sick to appreciate his rolled-up sleeves, the jeans that make his ass look unbelievable, and his bare feet. Barefoot and in the kitchen is a damn good look on him.
As the song changes, I clear my throat, both out of necessity and to alert him to my presence. He whips around quickly, a wooden spoon in his hand. His eyes soften when he sees me.
“Baby, what are you doing out of bed?” he asks in an authoritative tone.
I move to the kitchen island and sit on one of the stools as I curl up in the hoodie. “I’m thirsty.” My stomach growls. “And starving.”
