Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bridger
In a word? Dinner is awkward.
Okay, technically, that’s three words. And none of the hundreds I’m dying to say to Loren. I can’t wait to be alone with her so we can talk. About us. About my mom. And about me visiting her dad. Hopefully, she understands why I didn’t tell her.
She nailed my reasons when she explained them to my mom. And based on her greeting when she came home, I’m guessing she’s feeling pretty good about me right now.
I’m honestly hopeful for the first time in a long time.
Still, it’s hard to choke down chicken parmesan when the woman you love just kissed you for real, for the first time. She didn’t know we had no audience. There was no camera around. We weren’t in the middle of Operation Fool Margaret. She didn't even know my mom was here.
That kiss was for us.
And it was amazing.
So as weird as this situation is, I can’t stop smiling. I watch Loren now, across the table, pushing a forkful of green beans into her mouth. Correction: another forkful. She’s been shoveling food into her face this entire meal. And I have to say the strategy works.
Each time my mom lobs a question at her, Loren points at her mouth, nods, and chews, giving herself time to formulate the best response. I always knew she was an excellent teacher and a generous friend. Just a beautiful human all around.
But I’m here to tell you, my wife is also a genius.
“I mean no offense, Bridger.” My mother’s dry tone drags me back to the conversation, so I fix her with a stare and say nothing. Mostly because I have no idea what she was talking about.
Also, she probably meant to offend me.
“If you absolutely had to indulge your scientific mind,” she says, “I just wish you’d gone to medical school.”
Ah. Yes. This old complaint.
“Come on, Mom.” I frown. “You already know this. I just like helping kids who are intimidated by science to be …” I shrug.
“Not intimidated.” I spoon another heaping pile of risotto onto my plate.
“Some of them walk into my classroom assuming they hate chemistry. Or bio. Physics. Whatever. And I just try to make things less overwhelming for them. Maybe even a little fun.”
Loren coughs down a mouthful of chicken and grins at me. “Same.”
My mother narrows her eyes. “I thought you were an English teacher.”
“I am.” Loren gulps some water. Pounds her chest. “In fact, I originally wanted to get a PhD and teach college. But then I realized English majors probably love language arts already. And let me tell you, a lot of high school kids do not.” She shakes her head.
“Like, a lot a lot. So I have the same goal as Bridger. To help them like English a little more than they did when they came to my class.”
“That’s noble, I suppose. In its own way.” My mother lifts her chin, unconvinced. “But you’re talking about reading and writing.” She purses her lips. “Doctors save lives.”
Loren nods. “Yes … and … Bridger taught one hundred fifty-eight students last year.” She glances at me. “Is that right? I think that was your total. I looked it up once out of curiosity, to see which one of us had more.”
I nod, my jaw hanging open. I had no idea Loren knew that number.
“Anyway,” she swings her focus back to my mom, “those kids could become doctors someday. Or science teachers who inspire future doctors. So if Bridger keeps teaching for thirty-five more years, the impact could be exponential. I’d do the math, but—” She flashes a crooked smile. “I teach English.”
Oh, man.
I want to leap from my chair and spin Loren around the room, but we’re at the dinner table, and I have manners. Still, listening to her have my back like that makes me want to marry her all over again.
“Hmm.” My mother dabs at her lips with a napkin, although as far as I can tell, she’s put nothing in her mouth. “You may have a point.”
My fork slips, clattering on the plate.
Did I wake up in Opposite Land today?
“But you see, I always had such high expectations for my son.” She releases a woeful sigh. “I had so hoped he’d carry on the Adams legacy.”
And there it is. The all too familiar disappointment.
My mother’s all-time favorite bedtime story will always be How Bridger Broke My Heart by Leaving the Company. As if her investment in intellectual properties is better than my investment in the intellect of my students.
Loren clears her throat. “Bridger’s done a lot you can be proud of, Margaret.”
“And I’m not even thirty yet,” I snark.
Loren shoots me a look. “Which reminds me, did Dex text you? About Saturday?” She’s clearly trying to steer the subject to something else, and I could kiss her for it, except my mother’s ears perk up.
“What’s Saturday?”
“My birthday,” I deadpan.
“Yes, dear. I was there.” She pushes a smile across her face. “One might even say I played a significant role in the proceedings.”
“I gotta tell you.” I cringe. “That’s not much better than you dropping the word naked.”
“Oh, don’t be so squeamish.” She waves my comment away. Then after a pause, she tips her chin. “As the one who gave birth to you, may I ask if Saturday is your surprise party?”
Loren flinches, but quickly recovers. “So Bridger told you?”
“About the surprise party that isn’t a surprise? Yes. In fact, he invited me.”
“Did I?”
“Indeed.”
Whoa. That whole conversation is a blur.
Also, it took place before Loren came home and kissed me.
The truth is, the thought that my mom might actually stick around observing us for days is a wrench in my intestines.
We’d have to keep pretending. Even though we might not even be pretending anymore.
But with my mom here, we’d have a hard time figuring that out.
“Well, who knows?” I hitch my shoulders. “Maybe you’ll be gone by then.”
Her smile stiffens. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Of course not.” I can’t afford to let her think we’ve got anything to hide. “I just figured you’d want to get back to the comfort of your home. You aren’t exactly a sleepover kind of gal.”
She lays her napkin on the table beside her plate. “I haven’t made any specific travel arrangements yet.”
“But don’t forget, you hate surprises,” I point out. Like that time my dad walked out to raise another family. Or when I announced I was leaving the company. Or the day I moved away to North Carolina.
On second thought, I can’t say I blame her for hating any of those things.
“As we’ve already established, this particular party is planned.” She hoists a brow in Loren’s direction. “Didn’t you just ask if Bridger had received a text message about Saturday?”
Loren pastes a miserable smile onto her face. “I sure did.”
“I must say, your generation is different. Texting details about a birthday party rather than sending invitations. Or is this a practice unique to Harvest Hollow?” She tries to smile, but she looks more like she’s sucking a lemon, and I’m about ready to tell her she’s welcome to fly back to New York anytime, but Loren interjects.
“It’s just that our best friends are newlyweds, too,” she says. “And we’ve gotten so caught up spending time as individual couples, Bridger probably assumed I’d want to celebrate with just the four of us.”
“Well, do you?”
Loren looks like a deer in headlights. “Not at all. I just didn’t know you’d be with us this weekend.”
My mother shifts her lemony smile back over to me. “So tell me. What are these details your friend texted?”
“We’re meeting at a bar called Tequila Mockingbird.” I lean back in my chair. “And the place really lives up to its name.”
Yep. That ought to do it.
I’m pretty sure my mother will have her bags packed by morning.
“Sounds delightful,” she purrs. “I’d love to come.”
“We can’t exactly kick her out.”
Loren steps into the room, pointing her wet toothbrush at me. I’m sprawled across one of two matching armchairs opposite the king-sized canopy bed.
Stop looking at her lips.
Stop looking at her lips.
Stop looking at her lips.
Yeah, thanks, brain. I’ll get right on that, just as soon as you erase the memory of how those lips felt when she kissed me for real. Because honestly, that one small taste I got in the kitchen makes me want to do nothing but kiss her for real.
Forever.
But as soon as we found ourselves alone, behind closed doors, Loren and I agreed to table any talk about us as a couple until after my mom is gone. Oh, and also any action with us. As a couple.
I officially hate tabling.
“Can’t we, though?” I grumble.
“Hold that thought.” She wipes a drip of white paste off her chin and ducks back into the bathroom. Water runs in the sink over a series of loud slurps and spits. And if you think this isn’t adorable, you don’t know my wife.
Everything she does is incredibly cute.
Unfortunately, moving forward with whatever’s evolving between us is just too risky right now.
In too many ways. For one thing, we’re officially sharing a bedroom, which in and of itself is a temptation, and I’d absolutely never put her in a position of …
romantic escalation … just because our proximity made said escalation too simple.
Then there’s the fact that my mom is in this house watching us like a hawk.
If anything about our vibe suddenly shifts, she could get suspicious.
And suspicion is not our friend. So. For the sake of the trust, and for any romantic relationship Loren and I might pursue, our number one goal right now has to be solidifying my mom’s belief in our marriage.
And that means sticking with the image we’ve already established. Consistency is key.
Consistency is also torture.
Especially because, honestly, sharing a bedroom with Loren doesn’t even feel all that weird.
We’ve been living together for weeks, and I’ve observed her in all different types of sleepwear and workout clothes.
Our casual daily wardrobes. Even wedding attire.
So seeing her brush her teeth in her pink tank and shorts combo seems almost … normal.
In the most irresistible way.
Which is why I’m gonna have to push these armchairs together so we won’t have to share a bed, too.
That might do me in.
Also? I've got to get my mom out as soon as possible.
Loren returns to the room, toothbrushing done. “Okay. Where were we?”
“Kicking my mother out?”
She puts her hands on her hips. “We can’t. I mean, yes, she’s tried to control your life for the past decade.”
“True.”
“And because of her, you almost married some expensive debutante named Rosalind.”
“Also true.”
“And we’ll probably have to get a cat if your mom hasn’t left by the weekend.”
I puff out a laugh. “What part of all this makes you not want to kick her out?”
“The woman gave birth to you.”
I frown. “Stop.”
“Just try to be logical for a moment.”
“Me?” I snicker. “I am the emperor of logic. Galileo, remember?”
“I do,” she says. “And this may be our best shot at putting her last doubts to rest and ensuring that she’ll leave us alone. For good. Then we can go back to—” She cuts herself off.
I wait a beat, giving her time to finish her sentence, but she just stares at me, taking deep breaths. I can’t let this subject drop, so I straighten up in the chair. “Back to what?”
She exhales and presses a hand to her heart.
Also adorable.
“I’m sorry I came home all hot and bothered earlier and kissed you in the kitchen,” she says.
“I’m not sorry in the least.”
“But.” She tucks her lip up under her teeth. Still adorable. Even with the but. “I’d just found out you’d been visiting my dad.”
I swallow. “And you’re sure you’re not mad about that?”
“I’m the opposite of mad.” She comes over to perch on the foot of the bed. “That was the best thing I’ve ever found out anyone’s ever done. Ever. Which is why my emotions were all over the place,” she admits, softly. “They still are.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Mine, too.”
Where we differ is that the chaos inside me is because the dream I’ve always wanted feels suddenly, miraculously within reach.
Loren’s chaos is probably more along the lines of not knowing exactly what she wants.
And I have to respect that. I do respect that.
So I can be patient. I’ve already waited for her for what feels like a lifetime.
Hopefully, if we handle this right, we’ll have another whole lifetime together.
“I realize your mom staying with us now makes everything harder.” Loren releases a long sigh. “But I really do think she needs to leave on her terms. If she gets even a hint that we’re trying to push her out, she’s going to wonder why.”
This is when my brain chimes in again.
Why? Because I want to live here alone. With you.
I want to figure out what’s happening between me and my wife.
Without my mother here.
But as much as pumping the brakes is supremely deflating, Loren’s not wrong. So I lean over my legs, palms on my knees, and meet her gaze. “I understand,” I tell her. “I just don’t have to like it.”
“Like it?” She lets out a little snort. “Please. Having Margaret here is officially the worst.”
My mouth quirks. “Yet another thing we can agree on.”
She takes a beat, eyes locking with mine, and something passes between us. Warmth and light. Understanding. This isn’t a promise yet, just a hint of what’s to come.
After a moment, she draws in a breath. Blinks. Exhales.
“On that note.” Her chin tips. “I was thinking that, until your mom leaves, we might as well lay the romance on a little thick when we’re around her. Lots of sweet talk and mushiness. Make her feel as awkward as possible without actually activating her radar. What do you think?”
“Yeah.” I grunt. “I can do sweet talk. And mush.”
She flashes me a small smile. “Oh, I’m aware,” she says. “And now, I’m going to wash my face, and then you and I are going to sleep. Tomorrow is another day. Preferably, twenty-four hours closer to your mom deciding to leave. On her own.”
She spins on a heel, disappearing back into the bathroom. And I watch her go, missing her already. Why exactly does the image of her washing her face do it for me too?
Soap. Washcloth. Water.
Sexy.
Oh, man. I’m officially a lost cause.
Still, if Loren and I are going to move beyond friendship, she needs to feel totally comfortable. And she’s also got to be the one to take the lead. At her own pace. And only when her heart’s completely ready. So. Even if a guy can’t get rid of his mom on demand, a guy can hope.
It’s me.
I’m the guy.
Sleeping in an armchair tonight.