“And watch as you move on with other guys? Nah, thank you. I try to keep my self-hatred below suicidal level. And we both know watching each other fecking other people would be dazzlingly stupid.”

I give him a hard stare, folding my arms. “Fine. Then we go cold turkey.”

“I can’t go cold turkey,” he says.

God, he is difficult. “You leave no room for much else,” I grit out.

“False,” he retorts.

“What do you suggest?”

“A contract.” He lets his chair slam on the floor as he leans forward. “You Yanks love legally binding shite, yeah?” He reaches for my bag next to me, flipping it open. He takes out my camera and a pen, sprinkles the utensils out of a folded napkin, and straightens it on the table.

“It’s not the right time to be together, I agree. But if we meet again, under any circumstances, any time in the future, we’re making this work, Rory. Feck spouses. Feck boyfriends and girlfriends. Feck the world. If kismet happens, we are letting it happen, no matter what, you hear?”

I stare at him like he just fell from the sky. What is he smoking and how do we make sure it never falls into the hands of our youth?

“The chances of us meeting again are less than zero.”

“Bzzz. Wrong again. They are slightly more than zero. I would put it at zero point fifteen percent,” he says cheerfully.

I don’t know how he can be so nonchalant about it, but I guess I can’t complain. He proposed to me, and I’m almost sure he was serious. I turned him down. Publicly, too.

“What if one of us seeks the other person out?” I ask.

“That’s cheating.” Mal shakes his head. “It needs to happen organically. We can’t look for each other.”

“But what if someone does?” I have a feeling this someone is going to be me.

“Then the contract is terminated, and you don’t have to marry me.”

“I have to marry you if we meet again?” My eyes flare, but I’m smiling.

He shrugs. “High stakes make good stories, Princess Aurora of New Jersey.”

“So much for me having the power to kill you. You won’t even give me your phone number,” I mumble, sipping my Diet Coke.

“I’m not giving you my number because I don’t want this to kill me,” he grinds out, his eyes darkening.

I’m trying not to hate him right now, because I know everything he says is right and true. We can’t be together, and keeping in touch would leave both of us craving more. Mal jots the terms of the contract on the napkin. Then he signs it and slides it toward me.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

I read it first.

In the unlikely event.