Chapter 16
River
Gabriel insists when we enter the house that I get the bedroom, and he doesn’t need to ask twice. Because holy cow. I might never again get a chance to stay in the actual Venn diagram of a luxury home, a tiny haven, and a twenty-first century reimagining of the Sistine chapel.
I know it sounds impossible, but you’ve got to trust me on this. It’s the smallest bit of opulence I’ve ever seen. The finishes are high end, the ceiling is high, the walls thick and hung with rich, textured wallpaper.
Somehow, it all works.
“Crazy, huh?”
Gabriel says, grinning at my jaw dropping at the gold and smoked crystal chandelier in the kitchen.
“There’s a chandelier in every room, I think,” I say.
He nods. “Even the bathroom.”
The tour is short because I’m guessing the cottage is barely pushing nine hundred square feet.
“Who built this?”
I ask as I sit on the bed, bouncing a little on the mattress straight from heaven. “And why so small? Obviously, they have the money to go much bigger.”
He’s filling in the whole space of the doorway with his broad, long swimmer/runner physique.
Seriously, how am I going to look at him for a year without my feelings going out of control?
“My friends said they wanted to keep all the trees up here, so they built it in this natural clearing,” he says.
“Wow.”
“Steve and Meagan lived here for a year or so before deciding to move to a vineyard in Italy. They said they’ll come back eventually.”
“And we’re housesitting? Just paying for utilities and maintenance?”
He nods. “I’m taking care of that, yes.”
The contract stipulated we’d keep our finances separate. It’s just as well. I don’t need Gabriel knowing how much I spend on accessories and clothes for Lunch Lady Liz.
I finally give in to the urge to lie on the bed, flopping back so that my hair flies out from my head in every direction. I give a visible moan at the delectable feeling, and glance at Gabriel, who is scowling down at me.
Maybe I shouldn’t flaunt the fact that I’m sleeping here, and he’s got a questionable air mattress.
“You hungry?” he asks.
I rub my belly as I pull myself up, with great effort, to sitting. “Starving.”
He leaves the doorway and heads for the kitchen. “I got us Italian.”
“In honor of the couple who owns this place?”
I call out before I move to close the bedroom door. “Uh, I’m just going to change.”
Not that I needed to tell him that. I remove my wedding gown, panicking for a moment when I have a hard time with my zipper. This is not going to be one of those movies where the guy has to help the girl out of her clothes!
I manage to get it unzipped and change into a lightweight, apricot sweatsuit.
There. The most unappealing thing I own, next to my ratty old bathrobe.
His gaze flicks to me when I come out of the bedroom. “Hey.”
He pulls the foil pans from the refrigerator—it’s Wolf brand, but custom as it’s about half the width of a normal one—and puts them in the oven—also a Wolf—to reheat.
“Where did you get this food? There’s not an Italian restaurant around here.”
A pause. “Denver. Ever been to Macciato’s?”
“I’ve heard of it, but no.”
That would require a special circumstance to want to spend all that money on noodles. But getting married is special enough, right? “You drove all that way? Today?”
He looks uncomfortable. “I wanted to get something good for us.”
I peek in the foil-lined paper bag on the counter. “Hearty Italian bread?”
I lift one of the tubs next to it. “And a variety of high-end butters?”
“It is our wedding night.”
His eyes flash, promptly causing my heart to do a flip-flop.
I have to spin around toward the kitchen sink to get away from those searing blue eyes. Instead, I focus on the fact that I’m suddenly starving. After a moment, I look again, and now he’s got his tie undone and it’s hanging from his neck. When he moves, I see the small patch of skin showing above his half-unbuttoned shirt.
Mama Mia.
I squeeze my eyes shut and clear my throat.
“I thought it would be a nice gesture is all.”
His tone has a splash of defensiveness. “I figured most people like pasta, right? It’s pretty basic.”
I grab the sponge near the sink and begin wiping down an already pristine countertop, carefully lifting the “World’s Best Dad”
medallion in the cracked frame to wipe under it. Poor Gabriel. This is a very physical reminder of what he’s lost. “I’m sure it will be good. So what are you doing tomorrow?”
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,”
he says. “I can cross off getting married. Now we have to figure out ways to convince my parents that this is the real deal.”
“I told Sebastian I wasn’t coming into work tomorrow. Obviously, I didn’t say anything about being on my ‘honeymoon.’”
“They’ll all discover the reason soon enough.”
I scoff. “What are they going to say? I almost want to go in tomorrow to get it over with, to . . . you know . . .”
I can’t even say it.
“Face Sebastian. Right.”
Gabriel screws up his features, deep in thought. “I have a feeling they’re going to be coming by here for some answers as soon as they hear the news.”
I shake my head to clear it. I have to do this. It’s not a crime to elope. “So we just wait here after sending out the photos like we’re in a courtroom waiting for the jury’s verdict?”
He eyes me carefully. “Pretty much.”
“Great.”
He glances back at the oven. “This will take another twenty minutes or so. Want to play a game, or . . .?”
“Like, a board game?”
“Or cards. I have both.”
“Like this is a slumber party?”
I smile but shake my head. “I need to call Skye and unpack. And prepare myself for tomorrow.”
“Good plan. I should probably do the same.”
And so we do, going our separate ways as much as possible in this place. The rift of awkwardness is as tangible as the sunset shining through the trees when we’re out at the car getting my luggage.
Back in the bedroom, I notice there are two chests of drawers across from the foot of the bed and that he’s left one empty for me. So, I unpack my suitcases while I talk to Skye, who’s happily telling me the minutiae of the rest of her evening so far. I admit I miss some of what she’s saying. The cell service up here is spotty. Or maybe my phone is just super old.
I end the call when I hear the beep of the timer on the stove and before I know it, we’re at the banquette built into the wall, a cozy, two-person nook with plush, sage green velvet cushions and the moon shining through the tall windows, eating pasta primavera and baked ziti.
“There’s not a whole heck of a lot that can’t be solved with a creamy plate of pasta.”
I say, once the hunger has started to abate.
“Even a fake elopement?”
he asks, his glance flicking to me before he uses a fork to wind angel hair pasta against a spoon.
“I don’t know if it’s strong enough to do that.”
His fork stills on the way to his mouth, telling me my words have gotten to him. Still, his expression is unreadable. “We’re going to get used to it.”
He doesn’t say the words casually. There’s a firmness to his tone, a sense of resolve.
This is starting to set in. Sebastian’s going to freak and their dad’s going to be suspicious.
They’re all going to be suspicious.
I spend the rest of my wedding night playing games on my phone, sprawled out on a mattress so soft it might smother me in my sleep, nursing a bad case of indigestion from eating too much pasta.
Lovely.
And I have to get up a couple of times in the night to visit the restroom. There’s only one—an oatmeal-colored tile heaven with elaborate fixtures and a bidet. And each time I pass through the dark living room, I put my hand up to block my view of where Gabriel is. As oddly curious as I am about how the man sleeps—does he sleep on his back? His side? With one arm flung out?—I don’t want to look. I can’t. Seeing how he sleeps is crossing a line.
The weird thing is, I don’t hear him sleeping when I get up the second time. Come to think of it, I didn’t hear him the first time, either. It seems like he’s awake, staring up at the ceiling.
The feeling of aloneness is suffocating.
When my alarm goes off at seven, I move to the bathroom again to shower, my stiffly hair-sprayed hair from the day before dissolving under the massager showerhead. I’m pretending it’s a normal day, trying not to think of the firestorm that’s about to hit the fan. My getting ready game is suffering, though. I’m dumping my stuff out of plastic bags and digging through my makeup boxes like I’m a preteen just learning how.
By the time I get out, he’s already got his mattress put away and is pouring a bowl of granola.
“Good morning!”
I offer cheerily. Just because this situation is weird and fraudulent doesn’t mean I have to act all weird and fraudulent.
He glances up before sitting at the banquette. “Uh . . .”
He takes in the robe I’m wearing, his gaze flicking at me up and down.
I wrap my hands around my middle, like I need to protect myself.
“There are eggs in the fridge if you prefer that, but today I felt like granola and yogurt,”
he says. “There’s plenty if you want that. Oh, and there’s bread and jam in the fridge, too.”
Before I can even say anything, he adds. “Nice robe.”
“I—”
I start to snarl. “Does the old terrycloth bathrobe my grandma gave me when I was twelve offend you?”
I realize I overreacted to his comment. I don’t even have any idea what he meant by it.
He hesitates, looking at me again before his eyes flutter shut. “Yes. It’s hideous, and I’m trying to eat breakfast.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s the last gift she gave me before she passed away.”
I yank the matching belt tighter. “And it still fits me, so I’m going to keep wearing it.”
“It looks comfortable,”
he says, and I’m trying to figure out if that’s a compliment or not when he adds, under his breath, “It does not still fit.”
When his gaze goes to my legs, I get it.
He’s attracted to me in this.
He’s attracted to me in this?
It’s threadbare, thin, and eggplant purple. But it hits my mid-thigh . . . I grew quite a bit after the age of twelve. I should have thought about that.
The dynamics of this have become even more complicated. I don’t say a thing. What is there to say? I just make a couple of pieces of toast as quickly as possible, humming under my breath so that it appears I’m not paying any attention to him.
“Can I ask you for a favor?”
he says. I guess it doesn’t matter that I wasn’t paying attention to him.
“Yes?”
I ask, cautiously.
“Will you write a press release about our marriage? It would be nice to send it out in a couple of days.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
A press release about our union? That’s not going to be hard at all.
I take the plate back to my room. The room or is it officially my room? Probably not since his clothes are all in there still. I eat as quickly as I can and get dressed in a flannel shirt and leggings. I’m up in the mountains, aren’t I?
Right as I move to open the bedroom door, a text buzzes through.
Gabriel: I’m sending you these for your approval before I unleash them to my family.
It’s the photos Milo took. I feel my knees buckle.
Gabriel chose three. We’re standing on the steps of the courthouse, holding up the marriage certificate. In two of them, we’re smiling appropriately, detached, like we’re models in a bridal magazine.
But the third one is more serious, and we’re looking at each other from the sides of our eyes. It’s nice. Pretty.
You know what? Photography is a wonder. A form of magic. Because the way we’re looking at each other? I could almost think that we were actually in love.