Chapter Seven
It took a few days longer for Telford to temporarily wrap up his life and business in Denver.
He and Cam had had a few deals in the works, but he could handle those on the road or in Marietta, Montana—what a quaint-sounding town.
Small. Historic. Likely Cam would have loved it.
Unfortunately, only his ashes—in a wooden box—were going to make the trip.
Finalizing the marriage contract had also required time. His attorney hadn’t blinked at his request. She’d drafted the contract and the prenup and had recommended one of her colleagues to Ayana.
“Marriage for love is a fairly new construct,” Sydney had said briskly. “Business is traditional and for someone in your position, it makes sense for both of you.”
Ayana had noted Sydney didn’t wear a ring, and she had whispered an amen, sister, after Sydney’s comment, earning her a quick smile.
“Enjoy your road trip and this new adventure,” had been her parting words.
They’d headed out early on a Thursday morning—nearly one week since they’d met—driving north in his Jeep. Flying would have been faster. He’d thought about it, but then he’d have to buy another car as he wasn’t sure how long they’d be in Marietta. Or when he’d be returning to Denver.
For the drive, Ayana wore pointy toe cowboy boots, a short denim skirt, a flowery, lacy shirt and a cropped, battered suede jacket with fringe.
Her two bags and backpack were in the back next to his two suitcases and garment bag, and the packing differential made him feel fussy and vain—Cam had been the over-packer, not him.
But when Ayana had effortlessly carried her luggage to the Jeep and stashed it next to his, ignoring the valet’s offer of help, he’d tipped the man, and stood by prepared to help her clamor into the Jeep, thinking to block her bottom and panties from an inadvertent reveal, but she maneuvered gracefully.
He kept trying and failing to keep his gaze glued to the road. Ayana had presence. Her hair was sexily tousled and glowed in the sun. She was slim and toned, and her skin was golden. And odes could have been written about her forever legs.
She kept a leather tote bag up front with her, and he saw why.
She pulled out a navy-blue knitting project.
He relaxed. He’d been worried about trying to keep up conversation for the nine hours—not that she was difficult to talk to.
The time they’d spent together had been easy.
She was observant, funny, and knew how to listen as well as how to occupy herself when he’d been working.
He navigated through the increasing traffic to catch the highway out of town.
“I stopped and got your chai,” he said, wanting to show that he paid attention to her preferences.
“Yes, and I ordered bagels and a fruit and cheese basket from the dining room for us to snack on if you don’t want to stop to eat.”
He liked that she took initiative. She’d need to, especially for her comfort, although he made a note to check with her on the little things that could become big—hunger, thirst, temperature, music or not, the need to pee.
“Since you only planned to be in Denver for a long weekend, would you like me to contact someone to pack up the rest of your things and forward them to the Denver office?”
She picked up her chai, took a long sip, and hummed a little as she sipped, which was sexier than he would have imagined.
“This is everything. I travel light. Only what I can carry.”
The way she said that got him thinking all the way out of town and merging onto the highway.
Was she still running? From what—the unconventional upbringing or something more current?
Curiosity stirred along with the urge to protect her.
He had no doubt he’d find out, hopefully sooner rather than later as he had no idea what he was driving into.
Still, for the first time since Cam had died, anticipation licked down his spine.
A mystery to solve. A deal to arrange. A family to meet—or not.
She glanced in the back seat. Saw Cam’s box strapped in. He expected her to make a face.
“Should Cam ride up with us?”
“No,” he said after an embarrassing pause.
“Do you think Marietta will have an artistic community—perhaps we should buy Cam a fancy urn? Or was he a more simple, rustic man?”
“Huh?” He looked over at her, her knitting a graceful pool of silky yarn in her lap partially obscuring her dynamite legs.
“We could find a cool vintage box for him—wrap it in leather with cool studs to go with his whole Montana wish list, but he also strikes me as a bit of a fancy pants—maybe a beautiful urn or a Ming vase.”
“Jesus. I’d break it.”
“I doubt it. You’re a careful man. But the box is more practical until you decide where and what and when we and Cam end up.”
He didn’t want to think about the vibrant Cam reduced to ashes in a white cardboard box like it had a small cake inside. And he definitely wasn’t sure he was ready to open the box to put the ashes in another container.
Damn. Why hadn’t Cam just ordered the sandwich for delivery?
Such a ridiculous and innocuous and unanswerable question.
And here he was on the road north, heading to a state he’d sworn he’d never visit with a woman he barely knew but intended to marry.
What would Cam make of that?
*
Any hesitation she felt when she’d climbed in the Jeep this morning had faded by the time they stopped for gas and to stretch their legs.
She watched a family play catch with a small, scruffy dog on a patch of grass.
What would it be like to have a dog to cuddle and play with?
She’d always wanted one, but for the Family, all animals were working animals.
Plus, she moved too much. Worked too many hours.
Dogs needed homes. Security. Routine. She couldn’t easily flee with a dog, and many apartments didn’t allow them.
But what if …
No. She’d committed to six months. A year if they both agreed. Nothing longer. This wouldn’t be a real marriage. She wouldn’t be a real wife. This was a business partnership. She wouldn’t let it become a trap.
But it didn’t stop the longing for a dog.
Telford leaned against the Jeep, watching her.
He was on the phone. He’d taken quite a few calls as he’d driven, his voice quiet, decisive, one earbud in so she didn’t know what the call was about or who was on the line.
She hadn’t minded the quiet. She’d finished crocheting the navy, duster-style vest and had stitched on a few of the smoky blue and gray crocheted flowers.
It was a prototype—something she could quickly make, but it had an eye-catching style and could be individualized, and she could sell it at a decent profit.
Her online store didn’t bring in enough to live on unless she seriously scaled up to mass market, but she didn’t have to worry about income for the next six months or so.
And her expenses would be minor. Telford had been adamant.
But she’d pay for her crochet and knitting supplies. She’d insist on that.
The initial signing bonus had been deposited into her account, giving her more breathing room. Telford had held up his end of the contract. And now she had to do hers.
She turned her back on him, angled up the phone, making sure that the Jeep and his brooding profile was visible but a little out of focus—she’d add a sepia filter to give him and the background an old-time western feel, while the vest and only her jawline and hint of bottom lip would be in clear focus.
She took several shots and began to play with the filters.
“That’s the first girlie Gen Z thing I’ve seen you do—well, besides the knitting.”
Her heart jumped, and she nearly bobbled her phone. He’d startled her. Not good.
“You’re sneaky like a cat,” she accused, “and this is crocheting, not knitting. Knitting takes two needles and I do knit, but this vest is something I can make quickly. I wanted a quick and easy project for the drive.”
“The vest you’re wearing and the scarf, are those yours?”
She nodded.
“Suits you.” His hand brushed along her hair and brushed along her jaw. “Ready to get back on the road?”
Her heart rate kicked up with the touch, but she blamed it on the excitement of seeing a new town.
Yeah, that’s it.
*
Telford drove down the main street of Marietta, literally called Main Street, and felt like he was on a movie set.
The historic western aesthetic irked him.
Tourists likely found the town charming—a peekaboo back into what had once been known as the wild west. But all he could think about was this could have been his heritage.
His mother would have been safe here, surrounded by family—wouldn’t have needed to be a woman alone, fending off unwanted advances. She might still be alive.
Shoulda coulda woulda. He knew he was being unreasonable.
He refocused on the street. It did no good to look back. Only forward. Cam had always pushed that. Each interaction, each deal, each success or failure was critical as it was happening and then when it closed in victory or defeat, that was the end. Over. The next deal was the focus.
His gaze slid to Ayana. She was turned toward the window, seeming to take everything in. She’d finished the vest and was onto another project, but her busy hands were idle. What was she thinking about—questioning her decision to accept his offer?
There was a quiet, watchfulness to Ayana that both resonated with and worried him.
She radiated confidence, much like his mother had.
But she had secrets. His mother too had had secrets.
She hadn’t gone to the cops to tell them about the men hassling her.
She hadn’t told her father or the owner of the ranch.
She’d wanted to handle problems on her own.
Telford wondered if he and Ayana would get to the point that she would share why she kept moving. Why she always clocked the entrances and exits in each room they entered. He needed to be prepared if Ayana’s past came calling. But he wanted her to trust him.