I look at him. “We’re getting married,” I repeat, and he leans in just a little bit more. I can taste the kiss; I can feel his heat on me. It’s finally going to happen.

“Beau!” Ethan yells his name, making us both take a step back.

“I should bring him this.” He holds up the body wash. “I think we should tell him before we tell anyone else.”

“I agree.” Nodding my head, he turns to walk back to the bathroom but stops five steps in and turns around, looking at me.

“Married.” He smiles, but he doesn’t give me a chance to say anything before he goes into the bathroom. I put out my hand to hold the wall, my knees suddenly buckling under me.

“What the fuck did you do?” I ask myself. “How could you drag him into this?” I walk back to the bedroom and sit on the bed, wiping a tear away from my eye. Forget the fact that I want to marry him. Forget the fact that it’s going to be a sham of a wedding, and I always said I was never going to get married. Okay, fine, I said it because there was no one but Beau who I wanted to be married to.

He stands there in the doorway, watching me. “It’s not that bad.” He tries to joke, but the look on his face says that he’s not joking at all. His eyes almost look angry. He’s probably pissed that he has to marry me, putting an end to all the extra activities he does.

“Um,” I say. “I know that it’s going to be a marriage of convenience at this point.” I try to swallow, but it feels like I have a lump in my throat. “But the other women …”

“What other women?” He folds his arms over his chest.

I roll my eyes now. “You don’t have to pretend, Beau.” My thumb taps my index finger. “I’m a bartender. Do you know that means I’m almost a shrink? I serve people alcohol, and with that, they tell me their problems, or their secrets, depending on who it is.”

“Okay,” he says, not getting where I’m going.

“You’re …” I point at him. “Well, you’re active with women.” His eyebrows pinch together. “I’ve heard it in detail.”

“You heard in detail that I was active with women?” He asks the most awkward question he’s ever asked me.

“I mean, I’ve heard a couple of stories.” My legs starts to move up and down, and he sees it. “I never ask. I wouldn’t do that. It’s your private business.”

“From who?” he asks, crossing his ankles.