Chapter 10
Diana
My eyes are begging Stevie to stay, but she’s ignoring them. Don’t leave me alone with my husband, I plead telepathically.
But she and August start for the door, eager to beat the rising tide and the setting sun.
Stevie spent the afternoon helping me get settled, and when Ike and August arrived she was my buffer.
August seems like a good guy, though. When Stevie took Ike for a tour of the house—code for taking him upstairs to threaten him; I know how Stevie rolls—August and I talked.
He’s nice enough. He fixed a little issue with the fridge when I couldn’t get it running.
He has a handsome face and a kind smile.
And he doesn’t get under my skin the way his brother does. Maybe I married the wrong Wentworth.
“I’ll check on you tomorrow.” Stevie leans in for a hug and whispers, barely audible, “You’ll be fine. Ike is a good guy. But you have to chill out, lady. It’s like I’m hugging an electric fence.” She tries to pull away.
I’m not going to let her go. I squeeze tighter. Ultimately, she pries my arms off of her with a snicker. August is already outside. Stevie leaves, and the door closes behind her with a creak of its rusty hinges.
Now it’s quiet. It’s just me, Ike Wentworth, and a kitchen full of comfort food.
I have that going for me, at least. I’ll have to run back to the city to fill some suitcases with clothes and get my work computer, but with what I have on hand I can live here happily for a week.
Except Ike is sitting on the couch, pretending not to watch me while he scrolls on his phone.
Suddenly I’m picturing bars on the windows and I don’t know what to do with my hands.
It’s almost nine p.m. At home I go to sleep around eleven, but this seems like a good time to call it a day. I make for the stairs like I’m darting across a bed of hot coals.
“Running away?” Ike asks before I get there.
The salty accusation brings me to an abrupt halt out of pride. “Yes, obviously.”
“Don’t you think we should talk?” He’s lounging on the brown leather cushion of our new couch, totally at ease. It’s unfair that he is so calm about all of this, but he’s right. We do need to talk.
“Yes.” I take the cushion at the opposite end of the sofa. “Why don’t you start?”
He looks surprised. “Okay.” He sits up, propping his elbows on his knees. “Let’s start with the sleeping arrangement—”
“I am not sleeping with you,” I gush in a panic and immediately wish I could reverse the clock. Heat washes over my face.
“I know.” He nods, letting my craziness slide. He’s going way too easy on me. I don’t trust it. “I figured you’d get the bedroom. I’ll take the couch.” He pauses for a beat, and with a slight wince, adds, “But we’ll have to figure out the bathroom.”
He’s right. The only bathroom isn’t conveniently located, but I’ve already thought this through. “Since I work remotely, I’ll shower later. The bathroom is yours in the morning.” But I want to be out of the bedroom before he comes through. “What time do you usually leave for work?”
“That’s going to depend on the tide.” His warm eyes find mine, and I look away. “I try to be in my office by eight. And I’m going to get us a rowboat.”
I nod. That’s do-able. The corners of my mouth turn up thinking about the rowboat, though.
Is he serious? I can’t picture myself rowing to shore for anything.
Maybe an emergency donut, or a whoopie pie.
Being geographically close to Marlow’s whoopie pies won’t be good for me, so having to row across the ocean for one won’t be a bad thing.
While I’m thinking about Marlow’s whoopie pies, a little voice whispers in the back of my mind: You’re home.
No, I’m not. I’m keeping a practically haunted lighthouse with a man who hates my guts. My home is in New York. I need to focus on the present, though. “I’ll be up and out before you need to get ready. I don’t want this to be uncomfortable for you—more than it already is, anyway.”
He smiles. “I appreciate that.”
I’m still wearing my wedding dress. Comfort was never on the table for me.
I dry my clammy palms on the white fabric.
“We should go over the plan for the renovation.” This is my comfort zone.
I can talk about logistics, projects, and problem-solving all day long.
But don’t make me think about daily life with Ike.
“We can save the business talk for tomorrow,” he says with an incorrigible smirk. “It’s our wedding night.”
His teasing remark lands like a flashbang in the room. I groan, covering my face. “What is wrong with you?”
He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “What? It’s true. I should be feeding you cake. Removing your garter—”
“Ike!” I bellow from behind my hands.
“Why is this stuff so embarrassing for you?”
I drop my hands into my lap. “Because this marriage is a business arrangement,” I say with a glare. “I’m not accustomed to talking about garters in a business meeting.”
“You’re going to all the wrong business meetings, then,” he teases, kicking his sock-covered feet onto the coffee table. I want to push them down. “What’s the garter thing about, anyway?” he asks, mostly to himself.
I slump against the back cushion. “It’s the thing the bride wears on her leg. The groom pulls it off and throws it—”
“I know, but what is it?” He scratches his short beard. “Why is that something we do as civilized people?”
I’ve never wondered about that. Thoughts of weddings make me tense, so I tend to avoid them in general.
Now Stevie’s voice is in my head, demanding that I relax.
While I think about garters I let myself sink deeper into the couch.
My grandmother has excellent taste in furniture, at least. This thing is cozy.
I cross my ankles, propping my feet on the coffee table not far from Ike’s.
I am the picture of relaxation. I’m not thinking at all about the smell of his manipulative cologne.
“Garters are meant to hold up socks,” I state awkwardly, and with no follow up. Yes. Great work, Diana. You are so relaxed.
While I’m dying inside over my off-handed garter factoid, Ike slides his phone out of his pocket and taps something into the screen.
“Okay, here we go. Google says it comes from a Medieval superstition that said taking a piece of the bride’s clothing was good luck—” His eyes go wide and he puts his phone face down on his leg.
“I’ll let you Google it.” He clears his throat, shifting in his seat.
My instincts make me tighten my hands against my thighs, like Ike is going to reach under my dress at any moment to remove my nonexistent garter. The mental image makes the room feel hot. I feel his eyes on me.
“I’m not going for your garter, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not,” I say, even as my hands tighten.
“Liar.”
A burst of embarrassed laughter escapes before I can stop it. I will my fingers to relax against my leg. I need to calm down. Safety parameters would help. “Maybe we ought to have some boundaries in place, though, since this marriage is anything but traditional.”
Ike yawns. “Okay. Shoot.”
“You want me to start?” I recross my ankles on the coffee table while I think. “Okay, number one. This is a business agreement more than a traditional marriage. Professional conduct would be my preference.”
“I love when you talk dirty.”
“Ike.” The man makes my blood boil.
“Sorry, sorry.” His crooked grin does not match the words coming out of his mouth. “Continue.”
I sigh, exasperated. “Comments like that are going to make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Last one. I promise.” He puts a hand on my shoulder that I think is meant to reassure me, but he yanks it away quickly. “What other boundaries would you like to have in place?”
“Uh, that one. A physical boundary.” I don't want to elaborate. This should be self-explanatory.
“What do you mean?” His tone is way too innocent, and his puppy dog eyes aren’t fooling me.
“You know exactly what I mean, Ike.” I shove his legs off the coffee table. “Let’s keep our hands to ourselves.”
“Oh, the way you just did?” He props his feet back in place with dramatic emphasis.
“Last one,” I say, imitating his deep voice.
He chuckles and his eyes feel heavy on me, like he sees something. Or like he’s seeing through me. I shift in my seat.
“I’ll try my hardest not to touch you,” he says soberly, his dark eyes finding mine. “I promise.”
The uncharacteristic gravity of his words does something to me.
My heart rate slows and peace floods through me.
I think about my history with him. Ike Wentworth may be many things, but I’ve never known him to be someone I couldn’t trust in this way.
Sure, he feeds into the stupid gossip about my secret life as a paper straw-peddling sorceress, but physically?
He’s only ever been perfectly respectful.
Even climbing down the ladder the other day I sensed his discomfort and noticed his averted gaze. I’m physically safe with Ike, at least.
“Thank you.”
His eyes twinkle when he adds, “You’re so sure I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”
I frown. “We’re going to be in tight quarters for a year, and this is a business deal. I don’t want anything to get confusing.”
One side of his mouth ticks up, then he nods. “Okay. What else?”
I look at the wood paneling while I think. Those are the main things. “That’s all I've got for now. Professional behavior and some physical distance.”
“I only agreed to the physical boundary. I never agreed to behave professionally.”
My eyes flash to him. “Ike.”
“Diana,” his voice rumbles. I wish he wouldn’t say my name like that.
“Please be serious.” My heart is thumping again. “This is a legal arrangement, Ike. We can be professional and respectful.” Professional is my safe, predictable space.
“Says the woman who is sitting on my bed way past her bedtime,” he mutters.
I jump to my feet and pace across the gold-patterned linoleum in front of the coffee table. “I’ll feel a lot better about this if you promise to keep things businesslike.”
He kneads at the muscles in his right shoulder like I’m stressing him out. “And I’ll feel a lot better if I don’t have to wear a suit and tie in my sleep. I have to live here too, Di.”
I arch an eyebrow at the condensed version of my name that only Stevie uses, but Ike is preoccupied by rubbing his shoulder. I don’t think he realizes he said it.
I let out a long, annoyed breath. “Fine. Just please…” I don’t know how to say that I don’t want him messing with my head or my heart. I need him to be kind, but not overly friendly. “Don’t be…” There isn’t a word for what I don’t want him to be.
“Relaxed? Charming? Hilarious? Irresistible?” He throws the words out like taunts.
“You don’t run the risk of being any of those things.” Except relaxed. The guy isn’t taking any of this seriously. I stomp toward the stairs. I need space from him. “Goodnight, Ike.”
“Goodnight, Mrs. Wentworth,” he calls after me.
I groan and it echoes through the narrow, wooden staircase. Ike’s answering chuckle follows me.
Three hundred and sixty-four days to go.