"Marriage," I repeated.
"Yes."
"As in rings? Legal documents? A shared surname?"
"The surname is optional."
"Augustus."
I had been pregnant, officially, for less than an hour. I hadn't seen a doctor. I hadn't told my mother, Camille, or even the plant on my desk, which usually received the first draft of my crises.
And Augustus Evans was already discussing matrimony.
An hour ago, I had been wondering how to survive the next five minutes. He was apparently wondering how we should file our joint tax returns. I would have admired the efficiency if it hadn't been happening to me.
I'd braced for hospitals. Pediatricians, perhaps. A color-coded spreadsheet with seventeen tabs. I hadn't expected him to skip straight to marriage.
"Hear me out," he said. "Please."
I folded my arms. Mostly, I wanted to know how badly he could phrase it.
He began with stability. Then a framework. Then decision-making structures, delivered in the voice he reserved for quarterly reviews.
