Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Loren
I blink.
“Ummm. I thought we were going to keep this whole marriage thing a secret.”
Didn’t we say that? I thought we said that. I wish I'd said that.
“They’re our best friends," he says. “And we could use their help.”
I nod. Yeah. He’s actually not wrong about that.
“And I’m sure they’ll understand why we’re doing this, once we explain. You managed to convince me, after all.” He tips his chin toward my empty coffee mug. “Just direct that same caffeinated energy at them. They’ll have no choice but to get on board.”
I eke out a laugh. “We’ll have to assure them right away that we aren’t getting married for real,” I say. “Not real in the emotional sense, I mean. Just real in the legal sense.”
“Of course.” His jaw tenses. “Legal only. No emotions.” His eyes land on mine, and the sunbursts in his irises catch me off guard. There’s so much depth there. Like this calm, quiet strength. The combination is magnetic.
And yes, I’ve always known that Bridger is attractive. Objectively. Inside and out. But when we met, I was engaged to someone else. I didn’t catalogue the many qualities that could draw other women in.
Then, after Foster dumped me, Bridger became my rock.
He’s been a constant source of stability and support since then.
He wipes my tears. He moves my mattresses.
Metaphorically and literally. Above all else, I trust the man.
So, no matter how great his irises are, I can’t let our plan muddy up the waters of our friendship.
Losing him is another thing I can’t afford.
No mud?
No loss.
He rises from the couch, phone in hand, and before I can help myself, I do a double-take on the fit of his joggers. They hang low on his hips and hug his legs in all the right ways. But the thickness of his thigh muscles is just … mud. Very muddy mud.
I need to stop staring at my future husband’s butt.
Immediately.
“Are you calling them now?” I blurt.
Smooth, Loren. Smooth.
“No. I found a website.” He taps at his screen, brow creased in concentration. “I googled how to get married. No waiting.”
“Oh, wow.” I bark out a nervous laugh.
“That’s what we’re doing, right?” Bridger cuts a glance at me. “The sooner we’re married, the less time my mother has to interfere. If she shows up and we’re not married, she could try to stop us.”
“You think she’ll show up?”
“Not if we make it unnecessary.”
“Right. Yes.” My throat goes hot. “No waiting.”
He returns to the screen, reads for a bit. I tighten the belt on my robe.
“Good news,” he says. “Here in North Carolina, we can get a license and arrange a civil ceremony on the same day.”
“That is good news,” I agree. And honestly, the way he’s taking charge is even more attractive than his irises. Or his thigh muscles. But this is about a marriage license.
Not Bridger’s butt.
“Apparently, we’ll need two witnesses.” He shrugs. “So, Sayla and Dex?”
“Easy enough,” I say, even as normal breathing becomes more difficult.
My phone buzzes and I hop up to grab it from the charger.
“Speak of the devil,” I say. “Sayla must’ve channeled our conversation or something.”
SAYLA
I just ran into Wilford on campus. He told me about your summer school class being canceled. Why didn’t you say anything?
ME
You had enough on your plate.
Also, I was too busy fainting.
SAYLA
I’m so sorry. I know you were counting on that money. What can we do to help?
ME
You’re sweet, but I’ll figure it out.
Also, Bridger and I already came up with a plan.
SAYLA
Did Mr. Toolbox stop by yet?
Oh, he stopped by all right. And also, we decided to get married. NBD.
ME
He’s here now.
SAYLA
Still? What’s going on? Is he showing you how to work a hammer or something?
This pulls a snort out of me, but when I look up, Bridger is watching, waiting.
ME
Something like that. Talk later. ILY
“What else did you find out?” I ask, nodding to indicate his phone.
“Our first step is to schedule an appointment with a magistrate at city hall,” he says. “Or you can do it. Either way. We’re equal partners in this.”
My heart stutters. We’re going to be partners. I have a partner. For real. I swallow. “Then what?”
“Then we visit the Register of Deeds.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What’s a Register of Deeds?”
“They’re responsible for all vital public records. Like death certificates. Marriage certificates. Birth certificates.”
I snicker. “We’re just sticking with marriage for now.”
“Yes.” Bridger doesn’t laugh. He goes back to scrolling for more information on how to MARRY ME WITHOUT WAITING.
“So.” I clear my throat. “Does Harvest Hollow even have one of those … deed registry places?”
“Every county has one, apparently.”
“Huh.” Who knew? Foster and I never got around to getting our marriage license. “Where’s ours?”
“I’m mapping that out now,” he says, again with the quiet competence. “Okay. Got it. Their office isn’t too far from here.”
“More good news,” I chirp. “Nobody wants to sit in traffic on their wedding day.”
Bridger peers down at me. “I was thinking we'd probably just handle the paperwork and appointment today and do the ceremony tomorrow. I know we said ASAP, but even that’s still extremely fast.”
“Sure. Yes.” I flinch. “Of course."
He takes a beat, studying my face. Almost like he’s looking inside my brain. Like he knows me that well. “Are you all right?” he asks.
“I think so.” I squeeze out a shaky laugh. “Sorry if I’m being weird, but this whole situation is weird. Like, really weird.” Emphasis on really.
Also, my plan, though.
“It is weird,” he says, his eyes soft. “So we’ll both probably feel better once we get Sayla and Dex on board. Right now, this is such a huge thing, and no one else even knows.”
“She just texted me, by the way.”
“Sayla? Yeah, I saw that. Dex texted me too, at the same time. Wanted to know how you were doing.”
“Simultaneous spousal check-ins,” I say.
“Exactly.” His lips curve. “I should text him back.”
I bob my head, which feels a bit like it’s stuffed with cotton. “What are you going to say?”
“What should I say?”
I blow out a breath. “I honestly have no idea.”
Bridger’s phone pings again, and he checks the new text. “Dex and Sayla want to meet us for lunch after they finish up at Stony Peak. One o’clock. Fig & Apple.”
My mouth slips into an O.
Then my stomach growls.
“Welp.” Bridger chuckles. “That kind of feels like a sign.”
“Their wanting to meet us? Or my stomach growling?”
“Both,” he says. “We can fill them in on our plan and recruit them while we eat.”
“I hope the Fig can handle it.”
Bridger sends a reply. “Okay, we’re on. Officially ripping the wedding Band-Aid off in three hours.” When he looks up, his gaze is pointed. “That gives us time to run by the Register of Deeds. If you’re ready.”
My pulse picks up.
Am I ready?
Do I have a choice?
The answer to both questions is probably no. But this was my idea. And anyway, Bridger and I are out of other options.
“I should change first,” I say, hauling myself up off the couch. “Unhinged Bride Wears Pajamas will not be a caption in the next Harvest Hollow Happenings.”
Bridger arches a brow. “Once we’re married, I’ll keep you safe from all the local gossip sites, kitten.”
I bite back a smirk, even as my cheeks begin to heat. “You’re really trying to make the kitten thing happen, huh?”
His shoulders lift. “I kind of like it.”
Reluctantly, I kind of like it too.
“What does one wear to the Register of Deeds, anyway? Besides not pajamas.”
I’m rarely self-conscious about my wardrobe, especially around Bridger, but I don’t want to start my life as an Adams with a big faux pas.
“Well, I’m in joggers and a T-shirt,” he says, sweeping a hand down his body. “So … whatever you pick will be better than that.”
“Okay.” No need to point out how well he wears those joggers and T-shirt. “I’ll be quick,” I say, shuffling toward the bedroom.
“Take your time.” He nods toward the kitchen. “I’ll whip us up some breakfast while you get dressed.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Feeding my future bride is part of the deal,” he says. “Eggs and toast sound good?”
“Yes, please.” I grin. “Scrambled, if you can.”
“I can,” he says softly.
Whoa.
Irises. Competence. Butt. Eggs.
Beware of mud, kitten.
As it turns out, there is no dress code at the Register of Deeds.
The office is basically one long nondescript counter facing a row of beige plastic chairs. They’re bolted to the floor.
Do people really try to steal these chairs?
Bridger quietly fills out his portion of the forms, while I tighten my ponytail and fiddle with the straps of my sundress. My cardigan keeps slipping off my shoulder, and I trip over my sandals when a clerk named Mary with a beakish nose gestures us forward.
I’m acting like a woman in some romcom who’s about to enter into a marriage of convenience.
Meanwhile, Bridger remains completely calm. All broad shoulders and steady breathing.
Zero visible shakiness.
“Aren’t you at least a little nervous?” I whisper as we approach the clerk. He ignores me and smiles at Mary.
“Hello, there.” He hands over our paperwork, like this is an average errand for a Monday.
“Full legal name,” Mary says, tapping on her clerky keyboard.
“Bridger Jefferson Adams.” His voice is deep and rumbly. Strong enough that I almost feel it behind my ribs.
This man is going to be my husband.
Like, tomorrow.
“And you, miss?” Mary pushes her glasses up, blinking at me through her lenses.
“Loren Cane.”
“Middle name?”
My mind goes blank. “Oh.”
“It’s Elise,” Bridger answers.
“That’s right,” I manage.
He glances down at me. “Your mother’s name.”
I don’t remember telling Bridger this, but here he is. Storing up more of my history than I even realized.
“I’ll need to see your IDs and get your social security numbers,” Mary says.
I begin to dig in my bag, but Bridger produces our licenses and cards from his pocket. At first, I think he’s a magician. Then I remember he suggested gathering these things before we even got out of the car, so we’d be prepared.
As he offers our cards to Mary for verification, there’s a strange loosening in my chest. I’m always the one who handles things like this. Doctor visits. New appointments. Insurance forms. Bills.
So many bills.
I keep the schedule. I check the calendar. I sort each paper into its correct file. If there’s a mess, I’m the cleanup crew. Just me, myself, and I. And when anyone else starts panicking, guess who steadies them?
Loren Elise Cane.
Right now, though, I don’t have to take charge. In this moment, if my seams split, I’m pretty sure Bridger would pull a needle and thread from his pocket and stitch me up.
He’s a human sewing kit.
I inhale deeply, let it out.
“Here you go.” Mary returns our cards, and I stick mine back in my bag.
“Cool, cool, cool.” Do I sound like Sayla right now? I certainly don’t sound like myself.
Bridger dips his head and locks eyes with me. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod up at him, fastening a smile to my face. “Perfection.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re perfection?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t actually,” he grins. “But perfection sounds pretty good.”
I punch his shoulder. “Stop.” I’m blushing now. But not in a bad way. In fact, this kind of teasing and silliness, under extremely unusual circumstances, feels … good.
Mary reviews all our documents, clicks around on her keyboard some more, checks her screen one last time, before addressing us. “You’re both over eighteen?”
“We are,” Bridger says.
“He’s almost thirty,” I chime in.
Mary frowns. “Irrelevant. Is either one of you currently married?”
“I was engaged once,” I tell her, and a nervous giggle bursts out of me.
“Also irrelevant.”
Bridger’s hand comes to the small of my back. “This will be a first marriage for us both, Mary.”
“And you’re aware this is a legally binding contract?”
“We are,” Bridger and I say simultaneously.
We sign, initial, and sign some more.
When we’re finally done, Mary pushes our license at us. “Congratulations.” Her voice is a monotonous drone, like she’s said this a million times to a million couples. And she probably has.
I want to tell her that we’re the only us.
But I don’t.
“You’re free to marry anytime within the next sixty days,” she says.
“Wait. Your name is Mary!” I snort. “I just got that.”
Mary doesn’t crack a smile.
Bridger looks down at the certificate. “So this will work if we have our ceremony tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir,” she deadpans. “That’s within the sixty days I just mentioned.”
I can’t help myself. I lean over the counter. “You want to come?” I ask.
“Pass,” she says.
So.
Mary the Clerk is not a jokester.