Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Bridger
“This is actually good news.”
Loren gapes at me. “On what planet is any of this good? Because I happen to be on Earth, and in my world, people don’t do secret surveillance on family members.”
“I’m sure she just got a hold of a listing somewhere,” I say. “I didn’t hide the fact that I rented this place.”
But while none of my mother’s behavior comes as a complete shock to me, the same can’t be said of Loren. Maneuverings like this are completely foreign to her, and for that, I’m truly thankful. I’m also determined to shelter her from future maternal manipulation as much as I can.
“I’m still waiting for the good news,” Loren says, shifting her weight, her eyes darting to the flowers.
“She didn’t come here herself,” I say. “The roses are kind of like an ambassador, which means we won’t have to engage with her. We can even throw the flowers away if we want.”
“Ha!” Loren squawks. “You and I have a different definition of the word good.”
True story.
And now there’s probably no way for me to convince my wife that we’ll ever be completely out from under my mother’s thumb. If Loren hadn’t been questioning the wisdom of our marriage before, she probably is now.
To be fair, I wouldn’t blame her.
“You’re safe with me,” I say. “I promise.”
She heaves a sigh. “I know that intellectually,” she says. “I just … I don’t like it.”
“Yeah.” I smirk. “You just summed up my entire life in four words.”
For the record, this is not a thriller novel, and Margaret Adams isn’t some assassin, dropping clues before she takes us out. Still, her mental gameplay is elite. The flowers are a signal that she’s fully aware of all our movements. This is her way of taking back control.
Delightful, right?
She hates to lose, and her delivery was supposed to be a checkmate. But Loren and I already won in all the ways that matter. The two of us are united on this front. We have each other’s backs in the battle.
And my mother has no one.
“If it makes you feel better,” I say, “I talked to my lawyer.” That’s what I’d been doing when the flowers arrived. “And according to the exact wording of the trust, we’re in full compliance.”
Loren’s lip crawls under her teeth. “For sure?”
“Yep.” I bob my head. “I had to get married before I turned thirty, and my birthday is still weeks away.”
“Overachiever," she says. “As usual.” Her lip quirks, which I’ll take as a sign that she isn’t completely terrified. Disconcerted, maybe. Even a little scared. But I won’t let anyone traumatize my wife.
Especially my mother.
“So you really don’t think she’s coming?” Loren’s eyes flit to the flowers.
“She would’ve been here already.”
“I’m still not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” She glances at the door, and my chest tightens.
“Hey.” I reach for her arm, gently cupping her elbow. “I would never let anything happen to you. Ever.” My promise comes out low and guttural, the emotion originating from the depths of me. It’s primal. Elemental.
I’d protect this woman with my life.
“I believe you,” she says softly, and her gaze slides to mine. She looks so small. So vulnerable. And going to our separate corners now—on separate floors—feels like an impossibility.
“Want to put on pajamas and fall asleep in front of the TV again?”
She nods.
“Except maybe in the media room this time,” I say. “Bigger couch.”
“Yes, please. To both.”
So we do.
“Good morning, Mr. Adams.”
My eyes creak open, and I rub at my crusty lids. I’m in the media room, on a long, L-shaped sofa. Loren’s standing over me, wearing a bathrobe and holding a spatula. I scratch my head. Hair sticking up everywhere? Check.
Morning breath?
No comment.
“I made pancakes,” she says.
I give the air a sniff to confirm the smells coming from the kitchen. Cinnamon and something else sweet-ish. Like bananas. Also coffee. And … “Bacon?”
She shrugs. “You’re the one who stocked the pantry and the fridge. I just took my cues from you.”
My stomach rumbles. “Thanks. I’m actually starving.” Unfolding myself from the sofa, I stretch my achy limbs. “Remember how I rented this place so I wouldn’t have to sleep on a couch for a month?”
Loren wrinkles her nose. “Starting tonight, we’ll use the actual beds. Probably.”
“You’re the boss, Mrs. Adams.”
“Don’t you forget it.” She spins on a slipper, then continues down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “You’re in charge of dinner, by the way!”
I dash upstairs to brush my teeth, thinking a guy could get used to this.
It’s me.
I’m the guy who could get used to this.
Breakfast turns out to be slightly overcooked bacon and slightly undercooked banana pancakes, but the meal is, hands down, the most delicious of my life. We eat at the table in the nook off the kitchen, while Loren summarizes the episode of Surprise Bride I missed last night.
Apparently, I fell asleep first.
Later, we wash the dishes together. We’re basically killing this domesticity thing.
I can’t hide my smile. And I don’t want to.
Afterward, she tops off our coffee with the last of the pot, and we drop onto a couple of stools. “I have to say, you’re in a better mood than you were last night,” I tell her. “Like … much better.”
“I guess I just decided to be in a better mood.”
“Decided?”
“After season eleven of Surprise Bride ended, I stayed awake for a while, thinking through everything you told me. And I made a conscious effort to lean into your words. We’re safe here, right?
Your mom is thousands of miles away, and it’s not like she wants to murder us in our sleep.
You foiled her plan, so she sent us flowers, aiming to be a little ominous.
Or creepy. But she probably just needed to jab you a little for not following all her rules. ”
“Look at that.” My mouth tips. “It’s like you know the woman already.”
“I’m just working with what you’ve told me,” she says. “And it sounds like whether or not she’s satisfied that our marriage is legitimate, the law is, right?”
“Another good point.” I lift my mug in a toast, and Loren clinks hers with mine.
“As far as I’m concerned, we did all this for a reason,” she says. “For multiple good reasons. So we should get on them. Get on with life. Carpe diem, as the poets say.”
I gulp down the last of my coffee. “Speaking of getting on with things,” I say, “I thought I’d head over to the district office today. I need to meet with Dr. Dewey to tell her the recurring donations I had to retract can actually … uhhh … recur again.”
“Really?” Loren sets down her mug. “Maybe it’s not too late for me to get my summer school job back. The next session doesn’t start until Monday.”
I take a beat, caught off guard by the idea, which I honestly did not see coming. Far be it from me to discourage Loren from working. My only goal is to encourage her in whatever path she chooses. But I kind of thought she wanted to focus on her dad these days.
“Do you want to teach this summer?” I ask her, slowly. “If that’s still an option.”
She blinks at me like the question just came out in Latin. “I mean … I’ve never had a summer off before. So … yes?”
My guts twist.
This woman’s work ethic is one of the most remarkable things about her.
She’s fiercely independent, and she doesn’t want anything handed to her on a silver platter.
But that’s not what I’m suggesting here.
I just want my wife, who already teaches full-time and tutors year-round, to have a break from classes for the next six weeks.
I don’t think that’s offering her too much.
And she certainly deserves it.
Still, I have to tread lightly. Loren’s barely adjusted to the idea of me helping her dad, so getting comfortable with me doing things just for her might be too much.
“If your days were free, though,” I say, “you’d have a lot more time with your dad while he adjusts to Havenwood. A flexible schedule on your end could be good for him. And who knows?” I hitch my shoulders. “You might even find a little breathing room of your own.”
She tilts her head. “The old put my oxygen mask on first theory?”
“Could end up better for him.”
The words for him hover between us. Twice.
“Just something to think about,” I say. I don’t want to push. Or manipulate her. I just want Loren’s life to be a little easier than it’s been.
Sue me.
“Either way.” She rises from the counter. “I should probably go help my dad pack,” she says. “And then I’m tutoring this afternoon.”
I stand too. “I could join you after I meet with Dr. Dewey.”
“You want to join me at tutoring?” She cracks another smile. “Now that would raise questions we aren’t prepared to answer.”
I push the stool back under the counter. “I meant packing, but you’ve got a point.” We covered our tracks with those kids at the theater, but none of us really discussed how to handle the fact that we’re legally husband and wife. “Are we planning to keep our marriage a secret as much as possible?”
“I mean, we don’t need to tell anyone else, right? Besides Sayla and Dex. And your mom. And her legal team. And Susan Pantsuit.” She expels a breath. “That’s more than enough leaks already.”
I rub my chin, considering. “People at Havenwood know, though, don’t they?”
“Just Joanna Parker,” she says, collecting our coffee mugs. “And thanks to HIPAA, she can’t discuss our personal details.”
My ribs tighten.
The broader world has no idea that Loren Cane Adams just made me breakfast. Or that we’ve fallen asleep on a couch together multiple nights in a row. Or that we’ve got matching wedding bands we don’t plan to wear. Because we’re only married in name.
Not emotion.
At least according to her.
“So no one at Stony Peak, then,” I say. “Not the students or the faculty? Administration? No one?”
She heads to the sink with our mugs. “Sayla and Dex will be coming back to school as newlyweds,” she says, flipping on the water. “If people found out we’re married too, that would be … so weird.”
“Yeah.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “So weird.”