Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Loren
You know what’s not the least bit wedding-night sexy?
The selfies Bridger and I took tonight, a full fourteen hours after my most recent shower. And as a reminder, during those fourteen hours, I got married on a farm, had a cake fight in a theater, then stuffed a stupid number of tacos al pastor down my throat.
The pictures will, however, look authentic for Margaret Adams, which is the whole point, really. We captured Bridger wiping sauce off my mouth. Me spilling lettuce on the marble countertop. And the moment he snagged a blob of cheese headed for my dress.
Yes, my brand-new mother-in-law will be getting a glimpse of the real me, even if the marriage isn’t genuine. Mission accomplished, so far.
Which is why, a half hour later, after toweling off from a long, hot (very necessary) bath, I breathe a sigh of relief before sinking into a pair of my soft, well-washed cotton pajamas.
The baby blue set isn’t the least bit wedding-night sexy either, but I feel at home in my familiar buttoned top and drawstring bottoms.
And again, the goal here is authenticity.
Bridger would be a gentleman no matter what I came out wearing, I’m sure of this. Still, his mom won’t want to see me sporting a lacy negligee in the pictures we stage tomorrow morning.
I can just imagine the pictures.
Bridger wiping powdered donut off my chin.
Me spilling coffee on the marble countertop.
And the moment he inevitably snags a blob of jelly headed for my pajamas.
Clearing a circle in the steam-filled mirror now, I check my reflection, just to be sure there aren’t any remnants of sliced pork in my teeth.
The gold-framed mirror in the primary suite is roughly the size of a Jumbotron. By comparison, I look tiny, with red hair dripping down my shoulders, my blue eyes red-rimmed and flagging. But the truth is, I’m not that small.
What I am is totally unequal to the task of being Mrs. Bridger Jefferson Adams.
Still, that’s the job I signed up for, and I have to be convincing as his beloved wife. Otherwise, good old Margaret Adams, the trustee, could make things difficult for my husband.
Speaking of which.
Bridger and I are supposed to meet in the library for one last round of pictures before bed.
Sayla’s going to have her work cut out for her, editing all this footage into usable clips.
But that's the job she signed up for. So I pad down the stairs, my feet stuffed into warm, fuzzy socks with tiny hearts on them. I adore these socks. When they finally get holes in the toes, I’ll be sad.
But for now, I press a smile on my face and prepare for more selfies.
When I see Bridger, though, my smile widens. All on its own.
He’s waiting for me on an elegant high-backed sofa that looks barely able to accommodate a second person.
Behind him, the walls are lined with more shelves of books than I’ve ever seen in real life, outside of a library.
The space smells like leather and furniture polish, and I wonder if a cleaning service has recently been here.
After all, this was once somebody’s private home, and for a brief moment, I let myself fantasize about the wealthy people who lived here.
I always fantasize about a cleaning service.
“You look clean,” Bridger tells me from across the room.
“Well, there’s less frosting and taco on me, anyway.”
“I don’t know. I kind of liked the frosting.”
“Me too, actually.”
“So, bath or shower?” he asks. His own hair is damp, and he’s poured into a pair of the softest-looking cotton joggers and a fitted shirt. Casual. Comfortable. Perfect.
“I took a bath first, showered after.” I shrug. “The tub was the size of a spaceship, and I had to try it.”
“Good.” He slips a phone from behind his back. “Now, smile.”
“Oh, man. No warning?” I let out a cackle and put my hands up in protest, but he takes a few pictures anyway. “Those will be terrible,” I groan.
“Doubtful.” He checks the photos. “Yep. I’m right. You look good when you’re blocking your face.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” I laugh again, and he takes another few shots of me while I approach the sofa. “We’re supposed to do selfies,” I remind him. “Of both of us.”
“I’m allowed to take pictures of my wife.”
My stomach quivers at the word wife. Which is silly, since I’ve said it out loud already, more than once. And in my head countless times. But now, wife is real. And things already feel different. Semantics are … strange.
“Have a seat,” Bridger says. “Get comfortable.”
Comfortable?
The free space left on the sofa is pretty limited. But I can hardly sit in the chair in the corner and take selfies. So I decide not to make this night weird.
Scratch that. Any weirder.
When I drop down next to Bridger, the scent of his body wash is intoxicating. Sandalwood. Yum. The effect is almost dizzying, and I suck in a long breath.
As if he’s reading my mind, he inhales deeply too.
“Sorry.” I wrinkle my nose. “Do I smell okay?”
So much for not making things weirder.
“You smell delicious,” he says. “Like a combination of something sweet and even a little … savory.”
I laugh. “Probably the al pastor.”
Okay. That was the weirdest.
“No, no.” He chuckles, leaning closer to me. “Not pork. More like nutmeg. Ginger. And maybe cloves?”
“Sounds like a recipe for carrot cake.”
“That’s it!” He grins. “You smell like carrot cake.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” My shoulders hiccup. “People say stuff like that to me all the time.”
“Really?” Amusement glides across his face. “People say you smell like carrot cake all the time?”
“You’re the first to use that specific description,” I admit.
“But I’ve gotten other food comparisons.
Especially fall-themed. Like caramel apples.
Cinnamon cobbler. Pumpkin pie. And it’s not like I go around wearing spice-rack perfume.
I think it’s because of my hair color. The power of suggestion can be pretty strong. ”
“Wow.” His mouth slants into a half smile. “This is all brand-new information I’m learning about you.”
I tilt my head. “If we’re going to convince your mom we’re legitimately in love, we really should get to know each other better.”
He meets my gaze, quiet for a moment. “Honestly, I thought we already knew each other pretty well.”
“I mean, yes, but there’s still so much more to find out. Like, I’m aware that you’re Bill Nye, my secret-billionaire science-teacher friend. That’s big news. But there are gaps in between.” I tuck my leg up under me. “I’m missing basic facts a wife would be aware of.”
“All right.” His eyes study me, like gray steel, laser-focused. “Go ahead. Ask me anything.”
“Anything?” I huff a laugh. “That’s kind of broad.”
“Your idea.”
“Okay, fine.” I furrow my brow, thinking. “Who’s your favorite scientist?”
“Galileo,” he says. Zero hesitation.
“Wow. You had that answer locked and loaded.”
“Because no one else comes close.” He glances over his shoulder at a row of leatherbound encyclopedias. “Galileo is the reason I became a science teacher.”
“Really? Why?”
“He’s the father of modern science, for one thing.”
“Interesting.” My lip quirks. “I was sure that was you.”
“Don’t I wish.” He chuckles. “Galileo's the one who reinforced the Copernican model.”
“Copernican what?” I fake a grimace, even though I’m having fun. “I don’t remember that model.”
“The fact that the Earth revolves around the sun?”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Ha ha.” Bridger nudges my shoulder, grinning at me. “Copernicus also established the physics of motion.”
“Which is—”
“That all objects fall at the same rate.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m pretty sure I fall way faster than most people.”
He takes a beat, studying my face. “Not according to physics.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve seen me fall plenty,” I say. “And we couldn’t orbit around each other if we tried.” I let out a laugh. “There’s not enough room on this couch.”
Also, I’m deliriously tired.
Bridger’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if he’s tired too. “What about you?” he finally asks.
“My favorite scientist?” I nudge him back. “You. Obviously.”
“You have to say that. I’m your husband.”
“No, but do you want to hear something strange? Like a coincidence?"
“Shoot.”
“‘Galileo’ was my mom’s second favorite song.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.” I wait for him to ask more, but he simply meets my gaze, waiting for me to go on. And I like this feeling. We’re equal partners in this whole learning-more-about-each-other thing.
“It’s a song by the Indigo Girls.” I reach for his phone, and he hands it over. “Here.” I pull up the YouTube video and play it.
The music starts out light. A simple drumbeat and strumming guitar. But the lyrics are deeper. All about a person who keeps holding out for the right answers, terrified of making a mistake. Bridger nods along, listening intently until the last verse. When the song ends, I hand him back his phone.
“What was her first favorite?” he asks.
“Hmm?”
“You said ‘Galileo’ was your mom’s second-favorite song. What was her first?”
“Ah, right.” I smile to myself. He always pays attention. “Another one by the Indigo Girls. Called ‘Ghost.’”
“I haven’t heard that one either.”
“It’s pretty heartbreaking, to be honest.” I push out a sigh. “The singer has all this longing for someone she can never have. Her love haunts her dreams.” I hitch my shoulders. “Like a ghost, get it?”
“Play it.”
“You wouldn’t like that one,” I say.
“How come?”
My cheeks flush. “Because … it’s … romantic?”
He hesitates for a moment, then something passes behind his eyes. “Science and romance aren’t incompatible, Loren.”
“I …” Heat builds in my throat. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Pupils dilate. Breath catches. Blood races. Heartbeats quicken.” He keeps his eyes trained on mine. “Those are all biological responses to love.”
“Maybe.” I swallow. “Sounds more like desire than love.”
His lips curve up. Just the slightest movement. “I can’t imagine desiring someone I wasn’t in love with.”
“Well.” Goose bumps rise along the nape of my neck, and I let out a breath. “I stand corrected.”
He drops his gaze. “You’ve also been exhausted for hours. So we should probably try to get some rest.”
Yes, yes, we should. In fact, I should’ve gone to bed an hour ago. But now my heart is a drum in the cage of my chest, and all I can hear are Bridger’s words of love and desire echoing in my brain.
There’s no way I’ll be able to fall asleep now.
“I might need a little time to wind down,” I say. “Big day and all.”
“One of the biggest.”
“I’ll probably just watch Netflix on my phone until I drift off. That’s what I usually do.”
And by usually, I mean every night.
“Netflix, huh?” Bridger’s forehead lifts.
“I think we can do better than a phone tonight.” He reaches for a remote on the side table and turns on the flatscreen across from us.
It’s so enormous, I thought it was just a wall until now.
Maybe it was a wall. Maybe Bridger Jefferson Adams made the wall disappear. “So. What are we watching?”
“We?”
“You’re the one who said we need to learn more about each other.
” He kicks back and calls up Netflix. “Go ahead. Log in. I’ll keep you company until you fall asleep.
In fact, this will make a great selfie. For my mom.
” He lifts his phone to take a picture of us on the sofa together.
I flash a smile, but my throat goes dry, when I realize what Netflix will prompt me to Continue Watching.
I gulp. “On second thought—”
“Don’t be shy. Unless you were in the middle of something …” He wags his brows. “Forbidden.”
“No!” I blurt, snatching the remote. Then I input my username and password. If I’m going to live here for the next month, I might as well make myself at home.
The big red N pops onto the screen, along with the last show I was binging.
“Surprise Bride?” Bridger grins.
“It’s one of those married-at-first-sight shows,” I say. “And I’m not ashamed.” Okay. I’m a little ashamed. “But I watch it to remind myself why, after Foster, I am never ever getting married.”
Bridger stills for a second, then he frowns. “I hate to remind you, wife, but …”
The reality sinks in again.
I’m sharing a sofa with my husband.
“What I mean is, I’m never getting married for real.”
“Noted,” he says. He nods at the TV, and I hit play, picking up where I’d left off the other night. Right in the middle of a wedding ceremony.
“The future husband and wife have just met for the first time,” I whisper.
“I get the gist.”
We watch the officiant talk for a minute. And I whisper, “Suzy Pantsuit was way better, don't you think?”
Bridger nods, but says nothing, his eyes intent on the show. At the end of their vows, after the rings and all the promises, the couple repeats the lines that end the ceremony for every single episode.
“I met you today,” the bride says. “And I’ll know you later.”
“I marry you today,” the groom says. “And I’ll love you later.”
Bridger smirks. “Love you later?”
“Yeah.” I wrinkle my nose. “I tried to warn you.”
He examines my face, shaking his head. “That you did.”
And yet, he doesn’t leave.
Instead, when the next episode begins, he silently hands over a pillow to tuck behind me. Then he pulls a blanket off the back of the sofa to drape over both of us. And we stay like that, curled up on the sofa, side by side, until we finally fall asleep.