She nodded again.
“Okay.” I smiled. “We can plan that the second we get back. In the meantime...” I slipped my hands underneath her dress and untied the strings of her bikini top. “I’d like to explore the future Mrs. Statham right now.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve told you over and over that sand and sex don’t go together.”
“I remember you saying that...” I ripped off the bottom of her swimsuit. “But I’d like to find out for myself.”
Mid Life Love: At Last
Whitney G.
Friday August 15, 2014
Jonathan
Claire drives me f**king insane...
I’m sitting next to her at Timeless, Weddings Inc.—an event planning firm, listening to her ask the director a list of never-ending questions: “How many people do you have on your staff?” “How confident are you about finding us the perfect venue?” “What’s the highest budget you’ve ever worked with?”
Even though it looks like I’m paying attention to everything the director says—casually glancing up and making eye contact every now and then, my attention is definitely elsewhere. The only thing I can think about is the woman at my side and how, although she is undoubtedly the love of my life and the most amazing woman I’ve ever met, she never ceases to find new ways to frustrate the shit out of me.
I’ve given her three months to marry me and in the past five days she’s managed to schedule us for twenty three catering interviews, forty wedding venue showings, and sixteen cake testing appointments. She’s turned my parlor room into a hoarding cell for hundreds of bridal magazines and fabric swatches, and every day when she gets home she insists on showing me the newest wedding ideas she’s found on Pinterest and YouTube.
“What do you think about that, Jonathan?” Claire interrupts my thoughts.
“What do I think about what?”
“Having a celebrity singer at the wedding and the reception. Two different ones...Would that cost too much? ”
“We can have whatever you want, Claire.” I hold back a sigh and she smiles.
I’ve told her over and over how I don’t need—much less want a damn wedding, but I know it’ll make her happy so I’m willing to spend however much it costs.
“It was a pleasure having you two here today, Mr. Statham and Miss Gracen.” The director stands up and shakes our hands. “I hope to be chosen as the director of your wedding.”
Claire says a few more words to the woman and then the two of us leave the room hand in hand.
“Is this the last meeting for today, or do we need to meet with every wedding firm in the city before you make up your mind?”
She rolls her eyes. “There’s two more and then we’re done. Oh, and don’t forget about our pre-marital counseling session. I scheduled it for tomorrow morning at nine.”
Marriage counseling. That’s another thing she’s doing, another thing that’s completely unnecessary. Outside of her testing my nerves every so often, we don’t have any serious problems and we don’t need any counseling.
As a matter of fact, I’m going to make her cancel those appointments. Marriage counseling is for couples with trust issues, couples who lack intimacy and have problems connecting. As soon as we get back into my car, I’m going to show her just how well we connect. Literally.
Chapter 1
Claire
“We don’t need pre-marital counseling, Claire.” Jonathan looked over at me as the elevator doors closed. “This is a waste of time.”
“I didn’t say we needed it. I said we should try it—to make sure we both have honest expectations about being married.”
“And what expectations are those?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.” I smiled at him and he rolled his eyes.
I’d told him I wanted to attend a few sessions before we got married—something Ryan and I didn’t do, just to make sure we were on the same page about a few things. Of course, he was one hundred percent against the idea, but after I told him it would make me “happy,” he slowly gave in.
We were scheduled for a two hour session with the top counseling firm in San Francisco—Waldo and Emerson Associates. The doctors had assured me that it would be a light and easy process and that Jonathan and I would come out of it feeling closer than before.
As our elevator came to a stop and the doors glided open, I realized that there was nothing ahead of us. There was no secretary’s desk, no simple sign that read “Waldo & Emerson,” nor was there anything that resembled any sort of professional counseling business. Instead, the entire floor was covered in white sand, the few clear columns that stood ten feet apart were filled with colorful fish, and there were three beige beanbags that surrounded a small makeshift fire-pit.