Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Loren
“I liked that greeting,” Bridger says in a hushed, gravelly timbre meant just for me. “And we’ll definitely have to talk later.” His breath is hot in my ear, and when he gives my hips a squeeze, I’m honestly surprised my heart doesn’t disintegrate on the spot.
“As for you”—his gaze shifts beyond my shoulder, and he raises his voice—“nice timing, Mom.”
I spin around to face my new mother-in-law. She’s still as a statue under an archway.
Designer skirt and blazer? Check.
Expensive shoes and jewelry? Check.
Zero curves on her angular body?
Well. You get the picture.
“Loren, this is my mother, Margaret Adams. Mom, this is my beautiful wife. Loren.”
“So I gathered.” She tips her chin, appraising me from across the kitchen.
“Mrs. Adams, hello. Nice to meet you.” I dash over and shake her hand, pumping a little too aggressively to appear comfortable.
But this elegant woman I just met probably just witnessed me making out with her son.
And I’m guessing she’s here because she’s suspicious of our marriage, and prepared to deconstruct our every move.
I’m not sure we can survive Margaret Adams’s levels of scrutiny. What if one over-aggressive handshake messes everything up for Bridger? For us?
I am the least comfortable woman in the world right now.
Maybe in history.
“You look different from your pictures.” She steps back to continue her survey, and I’ve never wished for the skill of teleportation more.
“Pictures?” A frantic laugh drills out of me.
“You sent quite a few,” she says. “An entire album of them, in fact. Videos too. I would’ve expected you to remember your own wedding.”
“Ah, yes. Right. Of course. The wedding,” I stammer.
My cheeks are ablaze, my lips feel scorched, and my new mother-in-law is examining me more closely than my gynecologist. “I’m sorry.
I’m usually more put together than this, I just …
” I pause for a cringe. “Actually, I’m not usually more put together.
This is pretty much it. What you see is what you get. ”
For some reason, I dip into a little curtsy. And if you’re wondering whether this decreases the awkwardness factor, it does not.
“I appreciate the honesty.” Margaret arches one perfectly penciled brow. “But there’s no reason to be nervous.”
“Who, me?” I squeak. “I’m not nervous. I’m just excited to meet you.”
“Yes. You certainly seemed excited,” she remarks.
She casts a glance at Bridger, confirming that she was, in fact, here, lurking under the archway, when we kissed. This kitchen is big. Even cavernous. But how could my peripheral vision be that bad? Then again, I did barrel in here with a one-track mind. To connect with my husband.
And his mouth, apparently.
The weirdest part of all this is that just weeks ago, Sayla was filming artificial kisses between Bridger and me for Operation Fool Margaret. And now our first genuine, intentional, on-purpose kiss took place in front of her. Live and in person.
Not the honeymoon I envisioned.
“I must admit, Loren, that was quite the performance,” she says.
“Performance?”
“I wasn’t sure whether to clear my throat or start clapping.” There’s a gleam in her eye, and her lip quirks like she’s amused. I sure wish I knew what she finds so funny.
“So, Mom,” Bridger interjects. “Did you get settled in all right?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “The room is quite lovely. If I’d known you and your bride required more privacy, I would have taken more time to unpack.”
Bridger zips a look at me. “I put Mom upstairs in the guest suite. I hope that’s okay with you, kitten.”
“Of course,” I say, even as my stomach bottoms out.
She’s clearly staying here. With us. But how on earth did Bridger move his things out of the guest suite?
“Don’t worry about privacy, Mrs. Adams. We have nothing to hide around here.
” I press a shaky hand to my throat. Yep.
Still flaming. “Should I call you Mrs. Adams? Or … Mom?”
“Margaret will be fine,” she says.
I arrange my face into a smile, like I’m not dying inside. “Did anyone ever call you Maggie? Or Meg? I never really understood how the nickname Peg came about.”
“I’ve always been Margaret,” she says evenly.
“Me, too,” I chirp. “I mean, I’ve always been Loren. L.O.R.E.N. My mother’s maiden name. Loren Cane. Well, Loren Cane Adams now.” I offer her another curtsy, which is just as awkward, in case you were wondering.
“Is your family part of the Westchester Canes?”
“No, I’ve never been to any chesters. East or west. I’ve never been anywhere, really. Outside of North Carolina, that is. I’ve only ever lived in Harvest Hollow.”
“Hmm.” Her lips are a thin line. “You’re quite sure you’re not related to Charles Cane? A distant cousin, perhaps?”
“I don’t have any cousins. It’s just my dad and me now. He’s my only family. Besides Bridger, of course.”
“Yes, of course.” She turns to him. “Besides Bridger.”
“Mom, Loren already knows your people probably researched her family tree all the way back to the Puritans. You don’t have to pretend.”
“But why not, my dear?” She lays a hand over her heart, feigning ignorance. “You two are so good at it.”
More nervous laughter from me.
Bridger smirks. “Did that kiss look like we were pretending?”
“It did not.” There’s a long moment of silence, then her gaze drops to my hand. “However, I did notice you’re not wearing a ring.”
My stomach plunges. Even farther than the previous bottoming out.
The jig is up. So up.
She turns to Bridger. “And you seem to have your band on now, but your ring finger was quite naked when I arrived.”
He frowns. “Please keep the word ‘naked' out of all our future conversations. There’s not enough money in the trust to pay for that kind of therapy.” He lifts his hand, waving the engraved band in front of her face.
BJA. “I put this back on as soon as I got home from working out. Weights can bend the metal, and this ring is precious to me.”
Precious? A soft fluttering begins behind my breastbone. But the rest of my body?
Nauseous.
Before Margaret’s interrogation can return to me, Bridger steps between us, fully blocking her from view. Then he takes my hand and produces my ring from his pocket. LCA.
Loren Cane Adams.
I can practically hear Susan Pantsuit saying the circular band symbolizes the never-ending nature of eternity. Gotta be honest. It hits different now. “Here,” he says softly. And as he slides the ring onto my finger, my gaze comes to his. He’s looking directly at me. Not down at the ring.
More fluttering ensues. A significant amount.
Then he rounds on his mother.
“Not that my wife owes you an explanation,” he says, his voice deep and settled, “but she doesn’t wear her ring when she visits Havenwood.”
This is true. Mostly because I never wear my ring, period.
Margaret scoffs. “And why not?”
“I’ve only recently met Harlan,” he says, “so we decided telling him we’re married might confuse him. And there’s no reason to add any new challenges to his life.”
New challenges.
Bridger is right. It’s one thing to risk my own heart if things between us don’t work out. But hurting my dad? That’s something I never intended. Still, my dad already thinks Bridger is my husband. And he approves. Too bad Bridger doesn’t know that I know he knows.
Yet.
I square my shoulders, facing Margaret. “Your son’s been a very sweet friend to my father,” I say.
“Bridger saw how nervous I was about the move to Havenwood, so he’s been visiting my dad there in the afternoons.
To keep him company. While I tutor.” Bridger’s gaze snaps to mine.
“Just this morning, my dad was telling me how much he likes you.”
“He did?”
I press his hand. “He recognized you.”
“I’m so glad,” he says, and the words are gruff with emotion.
My heart squeezes. “Me too.”
And now he knows.
“Well, isn’t that just lovely.” Margaret’s eyes burrow into mine, but her tone is all politeness. “Speaking of challenges, I was so sorry about poor Garfield.” Her face drops into a sad little pout. “Bridger filled me in earlier.”
Uhhhh … Garfield?
I wish Bridger had filled me in.
“Mmhmm.” I nod. If his mom is trying to catch me out, I won’t go down without a fight. “Yes. Poor Garfield.”
She makes a sound with her perfect, capped teeth, something between a tsk and a cluck. “You must be terribly worried.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” My brow furrows. “Of course, we’re very concerned.”
“That’s because I haven’t had a chance to tell you both the good news,” Bridger chimes in, his eyes snagging mine. “Dr. Martin called from the vet’s office. She couldn’t make any promises, but she said we should be able pick Garfield up sometime this weekend.”
The vet’s office. Dr. Martin. Garfield.
My brain fizzes as I scramble to decode his message.
Get there faster, Loren.
“She just felt awful that Garfield had to stay with her longer than expected,” he adds. “But the infection got pretty serious.” He grimaces. “After the declawing.”
Declawing. Infection. Garfield. Suddenly, the lightbulb over my head clicks on. Margaret must have asked Bridger about the grumpy cat she heard hissing on the phone. The cat we don’t actually have.
Because I’m the cat.
I’m also not surprised she’d hang on to a detail like that and try to use it to trip us up. She probably had our whole conversation recorded. Luckily, my husband is brilliant, and we make kind of a great team.
Also? I guess we’re getting a cat this weekend.
“Only about three percent of cats get infections after that kind of surgery,” Bridger says, really selling it. “And Loren and I knew it was a risk, but we couldn’t let Garfield damage the furniture.”
“Because we’re just renting,” I pipe up, wanting to be a part of the cover story.
“Yes, that reminds me,” Margaret says, dryly. “Why lease this place instead of finding a home to buy? I thought most newly married couples like to set down roots.”
“We would have,” Bridger says smoothly, like he had the answer ready to go. “But Loren and I aren’t sure where we want to settle yet, long term.”
“Oh?” Margaret blinks, then her lips part, just a sliver. “I had no idea you weren’t set on staying here in North Carolina.” She draws in a breath, and her exhale is quivery. “Would you … have you ever considered … coming home?”
Bridger runs a hand over his head, and something sharp tickles my throat. This is the first and only sign of vulnerability I’ve seen from his mother, and as much as I hate to admit it, a wave of sympathy bubbles up for me.
I can’t imagine living so far from my only family for so long. And knowing Bridger as well as I do, he probably feels a bit sorry for her too. Regardless of her treatment. Despite all the trouble she’s caused. Because he’s Bridger. The man with the kindest heart. So I jump in to help.
“That would be hard for us,” I say. “My dad needs me. So I need to be close … for now at least …” I let my voice trail off.
Margaret’s chin shifts. “Of course.”
The oven timer goes off.
“Chicken’s ready,” Bridger says. “Who’s hungry?”