Burn for You

“But you’re wearing one.”

“The occasion seemed to call for it.”

We stared at each other for a while, until Bianca tossed aside her handbag and leapt to her feet. “Oh God this is weird!” she said, and started to pace.

“I know.”

She dragged her hands through her hair. It was down, falling in gentle waves around her shoulders, a dark mass of soft curls made for running through my fingers.

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. Jackson, shut the fuck up.

“My mother has lung cancer. Stage three.”

Startled, I opened my eyes. Bianca was still pacing restlessly, her arms now folded over her chest.

Without stopping, she said, “We’re broke. She doesn’t have insurance. Her doctor wants to do surgery. Chemo has shrunk her tumor, but she needs surgery and possibly radiation, and definitely more chemo after the surgery. All that stuff costs money. A lot of money. I’ve already burned through the twenty grand you gave me for the charity event, and that was only for the initial rounds of chemo and some prescriptions.”

She turned back and paced the other way, the hem of her dress flaring out around her knees. “There’s no guarantee the surgery will work, of course, but without the surgery she’s dead. That’s it. Finito. Over. Done. Sixty-four years of running a business and raising a child and being a wonderful wife and mother and friend and good citizen and God-fearing churchgoer and taking care of everyone else without a thought to her own needs, and this is what she gets in repayment. Cancer. Like that’s fair? Like that’s how it should be?”

When she turned around to face me, I saw how upset she was. The color was high in her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. Not knowing what else to do, I set my empty glass on the coffee table and stood.

Bianca said, “My mother is my closest friend. She’s the best person I’ve ever known. I’d do anything for her, you understand?” She looked at me with wild eyes.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I understand. You’ll marry a man you don’t love and give up five years of your own life so you can have the money to save hers.”

She swallowed hard, her eyes filling with tears.

I said, “That doesn’t make you a whore, forgive me for saying that word. It makes you selfless.”

She quickly swiped at her eyes, then turned around and started pacing again. “I don’t know what it makes me, but I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

As I watched her move across my floor, spilling her heart, fighting tears, sacrificing herself for someone she loved, I was gripped by an almost overpowering urge to take her in my arms. I wanted to kiss her and comfort her and tell her I was going to make it all right, that I’d take care of everything.

Instead I said gruffly, “Tell me what will make this easier for you.”

Her steps faltered. She looked over her shoulder at me, chewing her lip again, her brows pulled together in a frown. Then she came back to the sofa and sat down, so I sat down, too.

Looking at the floor, she said, “Knowing what to expect will help.” Then she lifted her chin and met my stare with a direct, unwavering gaze. I knew exactly what she meant.

I said, “Sex isn’t part of the contract.”

Faint color rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t back down from her frank stare. She said, “So we’ll have a contract?”

I nodded. “My attorney will draw it up based on whatever agreement we make, and you can have your attorney review it. The only nonnegotiables are the five-year time period prior to a divorce, a nondisclosure, and that you have to live here for the entirety of the marriage.”

Her brows lifted.

“Married people live together,” I said gently, leaving out that my father’s attorney had told me in no uncertain terms that was part of the bargain.

She turned her gaze to the rows of books lining the library walls. When she didn’t say anything for a while, I added, “There are eight guest bedrooms here, besides the master bedroom and Cody’s room. You can have your pick.”

She flattened her hands over her lap and moistened her lips. The pulse was going gangbusters in the hollow of her throat. I wanted to gently press my finger to it, to whisper something reassuring in her ear, but I kept my ass parked firmly in the chair and waited.

Later on I’d deal with the question of how I was going to live with her under the same roof as me for the next five years without my balls exploding, but right now wasn’t the time for that.

She said, “I don’t want a million dollars,” and my heart skipped a beat.

Here came the negotiation. Damn that red dress of hers, because I already knew I was going to say yes to whatever she wanted.

I sat back, crossed my legs, and kept my expression neutral.

“What I want,” she said, “is for you to pay for all my mother’s medical bills, prescriptions, any hospitalizations and surgeries, and whatever other necessary care she needs, until she beats the cancer or . . .”

She paused and looked at me, leaving the word dies unspoken.

I said, “Keep talking.”

She shook her head. “That’s it.”

After staring at her in silence for what was probably much too long, I said slowly, “What do you mean, that’s it?”

She made a face. “Anything else and I’ll feel dirty. This isn’t about greed or getting rich. I love my life, if you want to know the truth. And if I’m being perfectly honest, all your money doesn’t seem to have made you very happy.”

She had me there.

“The only problem I have is that I can’t pay for my mother’s cancer treatments. We could run up a huge bill and let the hospital come after us, but then we’re looking at bankruptcy court and debt collectors and maybe even having what few assets she owns being seized. And my mama is too proud to even tell her friends she’s sick—she’d rather die than go bankrupt or be a burden on anyone. If she lost her house and had to move in with me, she’d stick her head in the oven the first chance she got.”

I was beginning to see where Bianca got her moxie, as Rayford called it. I said, “There must be something you want for yourself. Something for the restaurant, or your future—”

“My future is my concern,” she said softly but with steel beneath it. “You’re buying a five-year pretend wife, and I’m buying a chance for my mother to live. That’s it. That’s the deal, or we don’t have one.”

My chest ached. This woman was in a position to get almost anything she wanted from me, and all she wanted was for her mother to be well.

For the first time in years, I had hope for humanity.

“How about this,” I said. “I’ll put the money in a trust and name you the sole trustee. That way it will be protected, and you can have access to the money whenever you need it, instead of having to rely on me. I think it would be . . . awkward for you to have to come to me with every bill. Then whatever is left over when your mother gets better, you can do with as you choose. Buy your mother a bigger house, give it to charity, whatever you want.”

When she opened her mouth to protest, I said firmly, “That’s the deal, or we don’t have one.”

She pressed her lips together. We looked at each other in silence as the clock ticked on the wall and my heart pounded like a jungle drum.