Page 122 of Love Unwritten
His eyes flick up at me. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”
“I prefer the term hopeful.”
He squints. “That there is exactly my point.”
My frown becomes more pronounced. “Is that such a bad thing?”
“In theory, no.”
“But you seem to think so.”
“Only because I’ll never be the one,” he says it with a sneer, making my cheeks flush with embarrassment.
Sure, I’ve said I’m looking for the one in passing, like when we were getting some shave ice the other night, but it didn’t sound as childish as he makes it seem. It’s not like I’m out there searching for some kind of soulmate, rejecting people left and right because they don’t meet an unrealistic set of expectations.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest to shield the way they shake with anger. “There is nothing wrong with being picky and knowing what I want.”
His head tilts in silent understanding. “No, there isn’t.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“What you want and who I am are two completely different things.”
“Sounds like an excuse.”
“Or is it just a reality check?”
I frown so hard, my forehead muscles strain.
“I can think you’re pretty—can think you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen, inside and out—but that doesn’t change our reality.”
“And what’s that?”
“We want very different things out of life.”
“How do you know what I want when you haven’t even asked me?”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “You said enough the other night.”
Is that why he looked so angry after snapping a spoon in half? I had a feeling it had to do with what I said, but I didn’t realize just how much it impacted him until now.
He stands and closes the space between us until our chests brush and our ragged breaths synchronize. His hand reaches out to cup my cheek, sending a zing down my spine that then ricochets toward my chest.
For someone who claims he isn’t the one, he sure has a way of making me feel like he is with every single touch.
He brushes his thumb across my cheekbone. “Tell me you don’t want to get married then.”
I try to avoid his gaze, but he lifts my chin and forces me to look him in the eyes.
“You can’t, can you?”
“No.” I meant what I said the other night. I do want to get married, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t wait for someone like him to come around to the idea. If I knew the person was special, a ring is only a symbol—a symbol I would want because of the commitment it comes with—but there wouldn’t be a due date for it.
I’d wait, if it made someone like him happy. A partnership is what matters most to me in the end, not some legally binding contract.
His next words make my stomach sink. “Tell me you don’t want kids after all.”
“I can’t.” After growing up as an only child who ached for the siblings I would never have, I want at least two, maybe even three, depending on life’s circumstances.