White Picket Fences

Total Insanity

I choke, coughing expensive wine all over the front of my faded Target dress.

"Marry you? Is this some kind of weird, rich guy joke?"

Ryan just shakes his head and sips his drink, clearly having anticipated this inevitable freak out and now waiting - rather impatiently - for it to pass.

"Mr. Dashwood, do you realize who I am? Do you know who you are? Are you feeling alright?"

Maybe he's had a stroke. Maybe he's got some rare, very-early-onset Alzheimer's or some shit.

Or maybe all the stress of his career and the responsibility of upholding his noble family name have made him suffer a total psychotic break wherein he thinks I'm actually Karlie Kloss.

Because let me be clear: I am not beautiful. I'm flabby and pale, with mouse brown hair and mud brown eyes.

"No one has ever looked at me and thought future trophy wife."

"I don't want a trophy wife," he says, and I can't believe I just said that part out loud. "And I don't want this to be something we do on a part-time basis, or as some kind of temporary arrangement. I need to be married, so I want someone to play their role at all times. The perfect, demure, all-American suburban housewife, with the lovely home, cars, and white picket fence."

Is he speaking English? Because I think I understand the words, but I'm interpreting them as the ravings of a lunatic, whereas he's acting as if we're holding a casual discussion of the weather or how well the Bruins are playing this year.

So when I speak, I form my words slowly and clearly, hoping they can calm the giant ball of crazy that's obviously bouncing around his brain.

"Mr. Dashwood, if that's the case, there are other, better ways. Like, have you tried doing what every other man in America does - dating? I can't imagine that you will have trouble finding women, but if you need help I can show you how to set up a Tinder profile-"

"I don't want a romantic relationship."

I blink, utterly confused.

"But you just freaking proposed to me-"

"Marriage is a partnership, so I need a partner. Not someone I have to constantly woo, or try to maintain the charade of love with."

He smoothes his silk tie and leans a few inches closer to me.

"Let me be clear - this is a financial and social proposition. My company is extremely conservative; they expect their high-ranking officers to look and live a certain way. My current... lifestyle... has been deemed unacceptable if I wish to continue to advance my career."

I'm suddenly getting visions of twisted red rooms of pain or barely-legal twink boys.

"Lifestyle?" I squeak.

"It's nothing too extreme," he says with a sly smile. "I'm simply, well... I'm what the tabloids like to refer to as a womanizer."

As if to prove his point, he reaches one arm across the table, running a single finger slowly, gently, along the inside of my wrist. He uses it to flip my hand, cradling the back of it in one of his much larger hands, the skin warm and soft against mine, and uses the other to trace intricate designs across the tender skin of my palm.

"I don't mean anything untoward or cruel by it; I simply have a deep appreciation for the female form, and I know exactly how to bring it to its ultimate pleasure. So I do...often."

His voice is bourbon over granite, burning and rough.

And he winks at me, the movement so small and quick that I'm not sure it really happens. But, for just that fraction of a second, the clean-cut corporate facade cracks and I can see something closer to the real man trying to break through.