Chapter 13
I LIKE WOMEN WHO YELL IN CHURCH
“But why, Daddy?” Sadie asks again, shoving her hand into my jeans pocket the way she’s done since she was just two. She does it when she wants my attention and it’s pressing.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Because I have a headache today, sweetheart,” I explain as she stands on top of my boot, clinging to my pocket.
I peg-leg walk to the side of the truck and lift her in, because she loves it when I do that.
“So no Chappell Roan until we’re home and I can escape, okay? ”
She smiles. “Okay. I’m sorry about your head.”
I close her door gently and walk around the truck, before getting inside and glancing at the clock. We have ten minutes to get to church, which is only five minutes away, thank heavens.
“Daddy, if your head hurts, how will you make it through church today?” she asks, and that’s a great question. I hook a finger through the bottom of the steering wheel to keep it steady as I head down the road. “We don’t sing as much as y’all do at Sunday school.”
“And that’s why I don’t wanna get too old for Sunday school. I don’t wanna go to church and not sing,” she says, thinking aloud as she ties and reties the pink bow I added to her ponytail, per her request.
“Well, you’ll be in Sunday school for a few more years before you come to the adult service,” I assure her.
We pass by the Bricketts’, who wave at us from the side of the road where they’re pulled over, likely letting their youngest, Albie, go pee.
A few minutes of bumpy road and fresh air, and the church is in sight.
I’ve got my mind set on tipping my hat over my face and catching a rest—sorry, Pastor Rick.
Except I know I won’t be able to rest, or even focus because Sadie knocks on her window as I’m pulling into the parking lot, hollering, “Look! Miss Quinn came to church today, too!”
Sure enough, there she is, in a long white skirt and tank top, her golden hair down and straight, the sun making it glow as she talks to Mabel at the back of her car.
“Daddy, look! Miss Quinn has red boots today!” Sadie bounces in her seat excitedly, rapping at the glass with her little fingers.
I shift the truck into park and get out, finding Sadie already running toward Quinn full speed.
I place my hat on my head, over my uncombed hair, and dust my hands on my thighs, suddenly a little nervous.
Why, I’m not sure, considering Quinn’s seen me aching as I train, no doubt zoomed in on the lines of stress on my old forehead, heard my bones pop, and seen my skin wear as agony twists my face into something ugly.
She’s seen me in some bad ways, so why do I feel nervous?
Oh Christ.
The marriage proposal.
Tate’s plan.
Tatum fucking Collier. How the hell did I let his ideas get into my head?
How could I have thought that a temporary, fake marriage is a good idea?
When we were in eighth grade, he thought climbing into the back of his grandmother’s station wagon and hiding in the back seat until she got home was a great way to get us across town.
He had no idea that Bessie Collier, the adorable granny with the best double chocolate chip cookies in town, had a gambling habit.
Long story short, his daddy had to pick us up when the casino manager found us trying to fish coins out of the penny slots.
“I’m headin’ inside. I’ll save you a spot,” Mabel says to Quinn as I approach, wanting to collect my child and head inside. No small talk, I silently beg. If I’m lucky, maybe Quinn was drunk last night, too, and can’t remember the proposal.
Mabel smiles at me as I claim Sadie with a hand to her shoulder. “I’ll save a spot for all three of you,” she says, heading toward the double open doors in her church best without so much as a glance back.
“Sadie, sugar, why don’t you head inside with Miss Mabel and help her save seats,” I offer, which may not have worked had Tate, Love, and the girls not been wandering up to the doors at that exact moment.
“I’m so excited you came to church this week,” Sadie squeals, tugging Quinn’s hand before letting go, racing off to catch up with Mabel, Love, Petunia, and her sisters.
It’s quiet between us but for the chirping of birds, car doors closing, and the shuffle of boots on gravel of people rushing to make it in time for service. Quinn watches until Sadie’s inside the church.
I’m workin’ the words around on my tongue, trying to figure out the best way to throw Tate under the proverbial bus and get out of this asinine deal I’ve pitched, but then Quinn Farley sets her green eyes on me and blurts, “I’ll do it.
I’ll marry you. But after church, I want to go to lunch, just me and you, and talk through my demands. ”
“Demands?” I arch a brow, amused by her choice of words. And… did she just say she’ll marry me? Holy shit.
She wobbles her head. “Well, the logistics. Rules. And maybe some demands,” she adds, letting an adorable smirk twist her lips.
I can’t help but meet her halfway and give her a partial smirk. A twitch of my lips and no more. “Well, okay then.”
She said yes, and as much as I want to pretend last night didn’t happen, the truth is, it did, I do need a wife, and somethin’ tells me a judge will buy that Quinn is my wife far more than they’d ever buy Mabel being mine.
“So lunch after church, just us?” she asks, worrying her hands together in front of her. I notice she doesn’t have that crossbody bag thing she keeps her camera in.
I nod. “Sure. I’ll see if Tate and Love can take Sadie with ’em and we’ll go to the diner.” Though I envision the diner after church and think better of it, raking a hand up the back of my head. “Second thought, maybe we go to my place, and Sadie goes to Tate’s.”
Quinn wrinkles her nose, and it’s only now I notice a light smattering of freckles along the bridge and over her cheeks. Fucking cute, that’s what she is.
“Good idea,” she agrees.
We both start walking toward the church, hip to hip.
Feels natural, which doesn't make a whole hell of a lot of sense, but it does. I peer down at her with one eye. “You didn’t come to service the first few weeks you were here. Why this Sunday?” I double-check that strappy bag isn’t with her. “And no camera. What gives?”
“Sunday is my day off from filming,” she says, and I keep to myself that I’m fully aware she doesn’t work on Sunday, because I find myself wishin’ it were Monday on late Saturday night.
“So I thought I’d start to get a little Sunday routine here in Sable Sky, just so I don’t feel like a total nomad for the next few months. ”
I nod my head, because I get that.
As we approach the doors, Quinn stops me, placing her hand on my forearm, over the cut I got this morning. “What happened?” She narrows her eyes, smoothing her fingertip over the jagged line, cleaned and cleared, but still ugly.
“Upped my trainin’ this mornin’,” I tell her. “Got on the mechanical rider.” It was an awful idea. I thought it’d shake the hangover right out of me, but instead I puked on a hay bale after being bucked off into a pile of tools.
Her breath hitches, and her eyes come to mine.
The sun’s hot, but the sweat sliding down my back has nothing to do with the state of Texas.
“Not without me next time.” Then she links her arm in mine, and surprises me when she says, “And man do I need a beer with lunch.” The sigh that follows is weighty.
“Everything all right over there?”
“Melvin,” she groans, shaking her head as she swats at an intrusive fly with her free hand. She’s only got one free hand because one of ’em is draped on my forearm. Because we’re touching. And she made the move.
My god, listen to me.
“I thought you said it was Devin.” I catch the fly in my fist and throw it away from us.
“It is, but I really liked it when you thought it was Melvin,” she says, watching me as we walk so slowly, I’m sure we’ll be late, but it’s worth it.
“All right, well, what’d Melvin do to ya?”
“He’s just asking for so many project updates, which he doesn’t normally do,” she says, adjusting her bra strap or purse strap, I don’t know.
What I do know is that I don’t care for the stress lining her voice.
She’s out here, in a state completely new to her, living with strangers, making a film about a person she just met.
Her boss ought to be supporting her, not adding stress to her already full and complex plate.
“What’s he after?” I prod, trying to picture this Melvin guy in my head. I like Melvin better. Sounds like someone whose ass I could kick. If I had to. Not that Devin doesn’t. I’ll kick his ass, too.
She lifts her shoulder, letting out a sigh that tosses her hair onto her lips.
We stop abruptly as she disentangles long strands of hair from the paint on her lips, shimmery and…
glossy. I look down at my boots, so aware of her arm wrapped around mine that I’m almost ashamed of myself.
And if I stand there for too long, I’ll be embarrassed, too.
“Ugh, finally.” She solves the hair-on-lips issue and we continue.
We’re walking slow, and I know I’m walking slow on purpose. Though if she called me out on it, I’d say it was her short legs.
They aren’t short, they’re lean, stretching and spanning forever, all smooth and glowing.
But in comparison to mine, I’d say they were short. She’s so small compared to me. Why do I find that sexy as hell, too?
“So?” I want to know, and I don’t mind shamelessly asking twice. My pride won’t let me ask again, and I find myself praying on the way to church.
“He’s making sure I’m focused on making the best film I can, that I’m tuned into the story and that my—” She stops, unlinking her arms to mime air quotes.
“—Fingers are on the pulse of Landry Vaughn.” She snorts, rolling her eyes, her exasperation with this guy evident, but I can’t help thinking she’s pretty cute when she’s irritated.