Doing It for Love(40)

"The Walking Stiff? It's done?"

"Finished final edits four days ago."

I trail my fingers over the keyboard, checking the desk chair for any more freaky dolls before I sit down. "And how long has it been sitting in this email to the festival judges?"

"Four days."

I smile and turn to him running his hand over the back of his snow-covered hair.

"Why don't you just send it?"

"I'm nervous."

"It'll be great."

He shakes his head and takes a seat next to me. "It's just … no one has seen it except for people who've been involved. So they're obviously biased-"

"Can I watch it?"

"You think you can be unbiased?"

I laugh a little and gaze at the top screen, which is paused on a scene of Chantal swinging a shovel at a zombie with one leg. "No. But I bet it's more nerve-wracking for you to let me watch it, right?"

"Definitely."

"Then if you can let me, you can let a few judges."

He studies me for a moment, and I give him a cheesy grin that makes him crack a smile. "Okay … " he says, and reaches over me and hits the play button.

"Not now," I say, hitting pause. "I'll watch it tomorrow with Theresa while you're entertaining your parents. That way you're not hovering over me. And it could be a good distraction for her … if you don't mind."

He shakes his head and pulls the USB out. "I don't mind." He kisses my forehead, lets it linger and melt the cold from my skin. "Thank you."

I take the USB and tuck it into my coat pocket, zipping it so it stays safe from the weather. My hands are cold, so I blow into them before Landon takes them into his own.

"How are you warm all the time?" I ask. He answers with only a shrug, and then he blows into my palms, warming them almost instantly, yet it still makes me shiver. Something awakens in the pit of my stomach, and I can almost … almost … feel the flutters of angel butterfly wings.

"Hey, Liz?"

"Mmm?"

"I … I need to talk to you."

"Okay."

His pointer finger trails up the center of my wrist, tracing my veins, giving me the shivers with its equal amount of tickle and pleasure.

"Why do you want to marry me?" he whispers.

"What?"

"Why do you want to marry me?"

I flick my gaze to his, refusing to blink and moisten my eyes even more. The butterfly is dying as fast as it was born. Is he seriously asking me this now? Two days before our wedding? He should know why I want to marry him, because I hope he wants to marry me for the same reason.

"Because … I love you."

"I know."

"Then why would you ask me that? Did your parents tell you to cancel the-"

"If they did, I didn't listen to them."

"Then … why would you ask me that?" I ask again. Landon keeps his eyes locked with mine, and I hope he says something else.

Change the subject.

Tease me.

Flirt with me.

Or something or anything because I'm not sure how to get into this conversation when I don't know all the answers other than that I love him. All we need is love, right?



       
         
       
        

The Moulin Rouge! soundtrack is playing somewhere in my head.

Landon's mouth twitches, and he rolls his chair closer, pressing his knees with mine, holding my hands and tracing finger hearts on my palms.

"You said you were scared on your list thing," he says to our hands. "But I don't get what you're scared of … and that's scaring me."

"I'm not scared," I lie. I'm petrified.

"You are."

"No."

"Please tell me why you're scared." He sighs, bends down, and kisses the center of my palm, and those angel butterflies I've missed so much come back with a vengeance.

"That right there, Landon." I point accusingly at him, and he looks at me completely dumbfounded. "That's why I'm scared."

He taps his face, brows pulled in confusion. I shove from the chair, pull at my ponytail, word vomit rising up my throat, and when Landon stands I release it in a flurry.

"We're peas and carrots!"

His eyebrow rises. "Peas?"

"And carrots."

"I thought peas and carrots were a good combination."

"I don't want to be peas and carrots." I toss my hands out, accidentally knocking one of the creepy zombie props.

"Okay, what do you want to be?"

"I want to be strawberries and whipped cream."

He still looks confused as hell.

"Ugh, we're an old relationship! When was the last time you kissed my palm like that? We don't go on dates like we used to. We don't flirt or seduce each other. The only reason we do that lately is because-"

"We've been off sex."

"Bingo."

His confusion starts to dissipate. "And you're afraid when we start having sex again, we'll skip over the other stuff?"

"We're going to be married and hardly touch each other and have to work and work and never have any fun and we're just going to be okay with it because that's how life is and that's how relationships go, but I don't want that. I want our marriage to be … fun. I love joking around while we fool around. I want to hold hands everywhere we go. I want to make out in the back of a movie theater, steal kisses in coffee shops, have sex over every inch of our apartment or house or wherever we live. And I'm scared marriage will change the fun part of our relationship. The part that keeps us young, keeps us in love, and I'm terrified you'll wake up when you're fifty and realize you're stuck with the decision you made when you were twenty-seven, and we haven't touched in months, we don't go out. I just want to know when that happens … that you'll still … " 

I pause, the last five months catching up with me. The stress, the planning, being cut off-it never let me forget what I'm terrified of. And when the first teardrop falls from my cheek to my wrist, Landon coaxes me to look at him.

"I'll still what?" he whispers, his own fear reflecting in his gray eyes.

"You'll still love me."

I squeeze my eyes shut, burrow into his chest, and hold on to him like he's the only thing keeping me standing. His thumbs swipe at my cheeks, push away the tears, and I feel him shaking his head above mine.

"You say all those things like they're bad."

"They are."

"Not to me." He pushes me back to look in my eyes. "If you want to sleep instead of have sex after a twelve-hour shift, I'm okay with that. If we'd rather watch four hours of TV in our pajamas instead of going out, I'm good with that, too. Whenever we're not having sex, I'm going to be satisfied just being in the same room with you."

"But-"

"If you couldn't have sex, who would you want to … not have sex with? Because I'd want that person to be you." He takes my left hand, tugs at the diamond on my finger before kissing the knuckle. "That's why I gave you this. Whatever we're doing or not doing, I want to do or not do that with you."

"I want to do or not do everything with you, too. I just … "

"Lizzie, I'm always going to hold your hand, and I'm always going to kiss you goodnight. Even when we have kids or when we retire. You don't have to be scared that I won't love you through everything. I'm not."

"Then what are you scared of?"

"That you'll wake up one day and realize you deserve so much more than I can give you."

My heart thuds and melts, and now I'm the one who needs to reassure him. Because he should never be afraid of that.

"Can you promise to make me laugh?"

He nods.

"And promise that we'll have fun?"

He nods again, this time with a smile so devastatingly handsome and beautiful, it chases all my nerves away, making them take flight into somewhere in the darkness above us.

"Then you don't have to be scared either."





Chapter 32


"Oh, shoot," Landon says, pushing me to the side when we get through our apartment door.

"Ouch, geez!" I say, catching myself on the card table. So much for the romantic Landon I was with twenty minutes ago.

"Sorry," he says over his shoulder, "but shit, she wasn't supposed to drop it off yet."

"Drop wha-" I stop and furrow my brow at the long white garment bag Landon's trying-and failing-to hide behind his back. "Is that my dress? Landon! You're not supposed to look at it!"

"I didn't. I just picked it up-"

"From the dress place? I didn't even know you knew where it was."

"Actually … " he says, swinging it out from behind his back. "It was at Gina's."

"Gina … ?"

"The costume designer for The Walking Stiff."

"Wha … "

"You said it didn't fit, right? And the alterations cost a fortune, so I got it from the dress place and-"

"Wait. This is THE dress." I scurry over, not really worried about him seeing it anymore as I push the zipper down. And there it is. My dress. My gorgeous, too expensive, yet makes my ass look perfect dress.