Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
Paisley
I sat up and blinked. Why was I on the couch? I definitely remembered saying good night to Greyson at my door last night. It was sweet the way he walked me to my door. Just like a date . . .
The doorbell chimed again.
“I’m coming,” I grunted, hauling myself up. Then I looked down at myself. Pajamas. At least I had a robe on. “Grey?” I called up the foot of the stairs. The whirl of pipes working rushed overhead. Shower. Looked like I was on my own.
Tightening my belt, I prayed it wasn’t a murderer on my porch at seven in the morning and opened the door. It was no murderer. But it was someone nearly as bad. “Mrs. Gulliver?”
“I’m so sorry, dearie. I know it’s abominably early, but I needed to drop this off before our ladies’ prayer group this morning. How are you feeling?”
I simply stared at the hurricane-force woman, short and plump with her fuschia-streaked white hair pulled back into a severe bun. “I . . . I’m all right.” I fiddled with the belt of my silky robe. Greyson, get down here.
“Thank goodness! I’d have come over sooner, but there’ve been so many emergencies in town this week. I tried to stop by on the weekend, but you were out of town to my surprise. Why, just the other day someone had the audacity to complain about my sweet Jerry. And then there was—”
“Mrs. Gulliver, what brings you by at this hour?”
I could have sagged against the wall in relief when Greyson’s strong voice rolled over me from behind. Not all heroes wore capes. Some of them wore—I eyed his attire—bathrobes, apparently.
Mrs. Gulliver placed a hand to her ample bosom.
“I needed to apologize.” She hefted a circular CorningWare dish I had barely noticed earlier into Greyson’s arms. “I feel just awful for making a mountain out of a molehill with y’all necking in the truck.
I remember what it’s like to be young and in love. I could have had more grace.”
Had I ever heard Mrs. Gulliver apologize for busting a couple making out? Nope. And why in all of Rivendell were we making out in the first place? I stared at her, cheeks burning. “Wh . . . what?”
She continued like she hadn’t heard me. “Moral conduct is important in this town, and we have a standard to hold to, but I suppose y’all are married after all. Still, it pays to be mindful.”
I pleaded silently with Greyson, but he was no help.
Standing there with the Corning dish in one hand and the other hand in his bathrobe pocket, he studied the wallpaper like he was cramming for a test. I tried glaring at him instead, but it only made his mouth twitch with a hidden smile. Incorrigible man.
“Well . . .” I said slowly. “I’m afraid it wasn’t memorable enough for me to remember. But I can assure you, we’ll be the perfect models of decorum from now on.”
She patted my arm. “Quite right, dear. I knew you were the reasonable sort. I’ll be praying for you.”
Once she was gone, Greyson took the casserole to the kitchen and added it to the ensemble of casseroles already Tetrised into our fridge. Then he spun to face me, a dangerous gleam in his bright eyes. “Unmemorable, huh? Not the tune you were singing a few weeks ago.”
I snorted. “Better luck next time.”
“Is that a dare?” His blue eyes glinted in amusement.
I froze. What was I doing? Bantering and teasing him like this? It was natural, comfortable even—like a well-worn pair of my favourite oxford heels. But it wasn’t right. Or was it? He was my husband after all.
I shook my head and inched away from him. “Sorry, I just . . . I’m going to take a shower.” And I rushed away before he could say something that might have me reconsidering his words.