Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wade
While Marie said her goodbyes to her father, walking him through promises about tomorrow and when he’d show, I slipped back to her bedroom.
The pink clothes were everywhere, and I started gathering them methodically. Sundresses folded carefully into boxes, tank tops and shorts got sorted by fabric, and ribbons, clips, and bracelets got packed into a smaller box.
It was an absurd contrast—my hands handling delicate coral fabric and pink chiffon.
These were her things, in her style. Loud, bright, and unapologetically alive. Everything that made her her instead of the neutral colors I'd been pushing on her without realizing.
I wanted her comfortable in my home, in our home, and if that meant filling my pristine white estate with pink, then that's exactly what I'd do.
Thomas helped me load the boxes into the car, and when Marie came out to find me after hugging her father goodbye, she saw what I'd done.
"You packed my clothes," she breathed, wonder in her voice. She walked over to the trunk, fingers brushing against a stack of pink fabric. "Wade, are you stealing my wardrobe?"
"I'm bringing you home, darling." I caught her hand, bringing her knuckles to my lips. "All of you, including the pink."
She giggled, a light, airy sound, and let me help her into the car. She curled into me as Thomas started driving, and for a few minutes we just sat in comfortable silence, her head resting on my shoulder, her hand playing idly with the buttons of my jacket.
Then she shifted slightly, looking up at me with curious eyes.
"You said you have children," she said quietly. “Grandchildren. I didn't know that."
"Didn't I mention it?" I stroked her back absently. “Three sons and a daughter. All grown up now. Jax is twenty-nine, Connor and Adrian are twenty-eight. And Jovie, my daughter, is twenty-eight too.”
"You have a twenty-eight-year-old daughter." Marie processed that, and I saw the math happening in her head. Her eyes widened. "Wade, I'm thirty-two. That's only four years older than them.”
"Than Jovie, yes." I kept my voice calm, unbothered. "Does that bother you?"
"I don't know." She bit her lip, looking at me with a mix of shock and something else. "It's just—I didn't realize you were a father. That you have a whole family. That you’re... a grandfather."
She whispered the word grandfather like it was scandalous.
"I am," I confirmed, my voice dropping an octave. "Does that title make you uncomfortable, Marie? Knowing I've raised men, built a dynasty, and held babies that are my own?"
She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to my lips, then back up. "It should. It really should. It makes you sound... old."
"I am old, darling. Compared to you." I leaned in, enjoying the way her breath hitched. "I’ve lived a life before you were born, I’ve raised sons to be kings. I’m a patriarch in every sense of the word."
"That..." She made a small, frustrated noise, hiding her face in her hands. "That shouldn't be hot. Why is that hot?"
I chuckled darkly, pulling her hands away from her face so I could see her. "Because you like that I have experience. You like knowing that I’m not some boy figuring things out. I’m a man who knows how to take care of his family, and now, I’m taking care of you."
She shivered, her eyes glassy. "You're a grandfather," she repeated, shaking her head as if trying to rearrange her reality. "A hot, dangerous grandfather who wants to buy me pink clothes. My life is insane.”
"Your life is perfect now,” I corrected. “My ex-wife and I married contractually, had our heirs, and I adopted Connor and Adrian after we divorced. She has her life, I have mine. The children are all adults with their own lives now.”
"Contract marriage,” Marie repeated the words like they were foreign. "That's a thing?"
"In certain circles, yes." I smiled slightly. "Not romantic, but effective. We gave each other two children and social standing. When it ran its course, we ended it civilly."
She was quiet, processing again. "Do you see them? Your children?"
"I visit them a few times a year. I'm quite close with all of them, especially since I have grandchildren now.” I thought about them, about how they'd react to meeting Marie. "I think you'd like them, and I know they'd be intrigued by you."
"Intrigued?" Her eyebrow raised. "That's an interesting word choice."
"I don't typically bring women home, darling. You'd be the first.”
Her eyes widened. "Never? In all your... grandfatherly years?"
"Never,” I confirmed, tapping her hip in warning. "You're special, Marie. I thought that was obvious."
She flushed deeper, ducking her head against my chest. I let her hide for a second, then tilted her face back up.
"How are your feet?" I asked, changing the subject back to her care. "You've been walking around all day."
"They're fine." It was an automatic response, too quick to be completely true. She shifted in her seat, trying to tuck her legs beneath her.
"Marie,” I said her name with patient skepticism. “I thought it was wrong to lie to your elders.”
She let out a startled laugh, eyes dancing. “They're fine," she insisted. "Just a little sore, but that's normal when they're healing.”
I shifted her, moving her from against my side to her own seat. Before she could protest, I pulled her feet up into my lap, my hands already removing her shoes.
"What are you doing?” She shifted back, trying to retract her legs.
"Checking your feet." I removed the first shoe. "Something I should have done before we left your father's house."
"Wade, stop! This is ridiculous," she giggled, pushing against my chest with her foot. "I'm a grown woman, I can manage my own feet. Is this the grandfather coming out? Do you need to check my pulse next?"
“Bit of a brat, aren’t you?” I murmured, wrapping my hand around her ankle and holding her in place.
"You really don't have to," she tried to pull her foot back again. "I've been walking around all day. They're probably not clean.”
"I don't care about clean.” I held her ankle firmly, preventing her retreat, and removed the second shoe. "It's you, darling. Every part of you, clean or dirty, healed or wounded, is beautiful, and entirely mine to inspect.”
I started unwrapping the bandages on her right foot. The cuts were healing well, still red and tender, but no signs of infection. Sylvia had done excellent work.
"They look better.” My fingers were gentle as I traced around the edges of the wounds. "The swelling's gone down."
"You don't have to do this." Her voice had gone soft, uncertain. "Really, it’s fine.”
"Shh." I moved to her left foot, unwrapping those bandages with the same care. "Stop trying to be strong all the time. Let me fuss over you.”
"I'm not trying to be strong,” she mumbled, eyes fluttering shut. “I just don't want you to have to look at my feet.”
"I want to look at your feet.” I looked up at her, letting her see the truth in my eyes. "Do you understand that, Marie? Taking care of you isn't a burden. I want to check your feet to ensure you’re healing properly and that you're not in pain. This makes me happy."
She stared at me, her dark eyes wide. "Why?"
"Because you're mine.” My hands moved up from her feet to her calves, massaging gently through her pants. "And I take care of what's mine."
Her breath hitched at those words, mine, and I saw heat flicker across her face. Her legs tensed slightly under my hands, not pulling away, but responding. Aware.
"Wade." My name came out breathy, different than before. Needy.
"Yes, darling?" I kept my hands moving, the massage turning slightly more deliberate. I squeezed her calf, letting her feel the strength in my fingers.
It wasn’t inappropriate; we were in a car with Thomas in the front, but it was enough to make my point. Enough to show her that taking care of her could be intimate without crossing lines.
"You keep calling me yours." She said it quietly, like she was testing the words on her tongue. "Like I belong to you."
"Do you object to that?" I asked, genuinely curious. My hands stilled on her calves, waiting for her answer.
"No. I don't object. I actually... I really like it. I just don't know what it means. What you want from me."
"Right now?" I resumed the massage, watching her eyes flutter slightly. "I want to take care of your feet, want you to trust that I'm checking them because I care, not because I think you can't manage. I want you to believe that touching you, any part of you, is because I crave it.”
"And later?" Her voice was smaller now. "What do you want later?"
"Later, I want you in my bed. I want to hold you while you sleep and make sure you don't have nightmares. I want to wake up and see you in my sheets."
I met her eyes, the desire I usually kept banked now flooding out. “I want to keep taking care of you and making you feel good. Is that okay?"
"Yes." The word came out almost like a gasp. "Yes, that's more than okay."
"Good girl." The praise made her shiver, and I filed that reaction away for later. "Now, let me finish checking these bandages, then we'll get you home. Marie?"
"Yes?"
"If you want Honey to stay at the estate with you, she can." I rewrapped her feet carefully, secured the bandages properly. "Your father can bring her tomorrow when he visits. My staff will ensure she’s comfortable and has everything she needs. I know you missed her."
She gasped immediately. "You'd do that? Let Honey stay?"
"Darling, I'd do anything you desired.” I lowered her feet from my lap and settled her shoes back on, pulling her back against my side where she belonged. "Including welcoming a messy golden retriever into my pristine estate."
She laughed, wiggling closer. "Thank you. For my dad, for Honey, for the pink clothes. For checking my feet even when I told you not to."
"Always, my darling.” I kissed her hair, holding her close.
"Home. You keep calling the estate home. Why?”
"Because that's what it is." I stroked her back, keeping my voice gentle.
"Your home," she clarified, poking my chest. "Technically."
"Our home." I tilted her face up. “Marie, do you think I packed up all your pink clothes and loaded them into my car just to redecorate temporarily? Do you think I'm inviting your dog to live with us for a weekend?"
"I don't know." Her voice was small, but I could tell she was trying to remain playful. "I don't know what this is or how long you want me to stay."
"As long as you want to be there." I cupped her face. “Months, years, forever. The estate is your home if you choose to make it so. Your room, your space, your pink clothes filling up my white spaces. Your dog on the beach. All of it, Marie. I'm offering all of it."
"But why?" She looked genuinely confused. "You barely know me. Four days isn't enough.”
"It's enough." I was fixing this now. “It's enough to know I don't want you to leave. Enough to know that having you in my bed, in my home, in my life, makes me happy. Enough to know I want to keep taking care of you. That I need to keep taking care of you."
"You need to?" She repeated the words.
"Yes." I didn’t hesitate. "You make me feel things I haven't felt in decades, darling. You make me want to rearrange my entire life around making you happy. And I'm choosing to do exactly that."
She searched my face, looking for the lie, the catch, the inevitable moment this would turn into something else. But I let her look, let her see that this was real.
"I want to stay," she whispered finally. "I want to wake up in your estate, see the ocean, have Honey on your beach, and eat the oxtail soup your chef makes. I want my pink clothes in your white spaces. I want all of it."
"And me?" I asked, raising a brow.
"Yeah," she breathed, snuggling deep into my side. "I guess I'll keep the grandpa too."
I chuckled, tightening my arm around her. "Then you'll have it." I kissed her forehead, soft and lingering. "Welcome home, darling."
She smiled against my shirt, finally relaxed, believing that this wasn't temporary, wasn't conditional, and wasn't going to disappear the moment she let herself want it.