Chapter 3 - Aaron
"We'll figure it out. We have time." Elena says.
I nod, turning to leave her so she can get settled, when she surprises me.
"Aaron," she says softly, "would you mind staying for a while? I don't want to be alone just yet."
I hesitate, hand still on the doorknob. This wasn't part of the plan—though to be fair, nothing today has gone according to plan.
"Sure," I finally answer, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind me.
Elena sits on the edge of the bed, smoothing her skirt over her knees in a gesture that seems nervous. I opt for the chair by the desk, keeping a respectful distance between us. The air feels charged somehow, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.
"Your family is not what I expected," she says, breaking the silence.
I let out a short laugh. "Yeah, the Covington brothers are a force of nature. I should have warned you better."
"No, I mean—" She pauses, considering her words. "They're warmer than I thought they would be. From how you described them, I expected more..."
"Cowboy stoicism?" I supply.
She smiles, and it transforms her face. In our video calls, she'd been reserved, almost formal. This smile reaches her eyes, creating small dimples on her cheeks I hadn't noticed before.
"Something like that," she agrees. "But they're very expressive. Even Jackson, who clearly thinks I might be some kind of con artist."
"He's protective," I explain, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. "Has been since our parents died. Took on raising all of us, even though Cole and I were already teenagers."
"How old were you?" she asks.
"Seventeen when Mom died. Dad held on for another three years, but he was never the same after she was gone. Lung cancer." The familiar ache is still there when I think about them, but it's now duller with time.
Elena nods, her eyes soft with understanding. "I lost my father when I was twelve. Car accident. My mother remarried when I was in university."
This is new information. In our emails and calls, we'd kept mostly to the present and future, avoiding too many details about our pasts. I realize how little I actually know about her.
"Do you get along with your stepfather?" I ask.
She shrugs slightly. "He's... fine. Kind enough, but we never connected. He and my mother moved to France for his work five years ago. I see them at Christmas, usually."
"Is that why you decided to..." I trail off, unsure how to phrase it delicately.
"Become a mail order bride?" she finishes, arching an eyebrow. "You can say it, Aaron. It's what I am. What we've arranged."
I feel heat creep up my neck. "It sounds so transactional when you put it that way."
"Isn't it, though?" she challenges, but her tone isn't harsh. "We made an arrangement. Three months to see if we're compatible for marriage. A practical solution for both of us."
"When you put it like that, it sounds cold," I say, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
Elena tilts her head slightly. "I don't see it as cold. Practical doesn't mean without feeling. It just means we're being honest about what we want."
"And what do you want, Elena?" I find myself asking. "Really?"
She doesn't answer immediately, and I appreciate that. It means she's giving the question real thought.
"Stability," she finally says. "A home that feels permanent. Family. Maybe children someday." She looks down at her hands. "In Spain, I always felt I was meant to leave. In England, France, Germany—everywhere I taught, I was the foreigner, the temporary one. I want to belong somewhere."
Her honesty cuts through my defenses. It's the most personal thing either of us has shared.
"I want a partner," I admit. "Someone who understands that this ranch, these people—they're my life. After the Army, I came back different. Dating felt impossible. I'd get through a dinner, but when she wanted to know about me, about the real stuff..." I shake my head. "I'd shut down."
"And you think this arrangement will be different?" she asks, genuinely curious.
"I think starting with the understanding that we're building toward something specific helps," I say. "No games, no wondering when to call, no dating rituals I never understood anyway. Just two adults trying to build something together."
Elena smiles slightly. "Like a business partnership."
"With more kissing," I say before I can stop myself, then feel my face grow hot. "Eventually, I mean. If we—if it works out."
To my relief, she laughs—a genuine sound that makes something in my chest loosen.
"I appreciate your directness," she says. "It's refreshing."
"Not a common compliment I get," I admit. "My brothers would say I'm about as communicative as a fence post."
"Yet here you are, talking to me."
I consider this. "Yeah, I guess I am."
"Tell me about your time in the military," she says, changing the subject. "You mentioned Iraq in your emails, but not much else."
Normally, this is where I'd deflect, change the subject, or give some vague non-answer. But something about Elena's direct gaze makes me want to try.
"Third Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment," I say. "Did three tours in Iraq, two in Afghanistan. Special operations, mainly."
"That must have been difficult," she says simply, not pushing but not shying away either.
"It was... intense," I settle on. "Dangerous, chaotic, but also—there's a clarity in combat. Your mission, your brothers-in-arms, survival. Everything else falls away."
"Is that why you find civilian life challenging?" she asks perceptively.
I consider denying it, but what would be the point?
"Partly. The noise of normal life—not actual noise, but all the social stuff, the expectations, the small talk—it can be overwhelming. And then there's the other stuff."
"What other stuff?"
I hesitate, but if we're going to do this, really try this, she deserves honesty. "PTSD. Not as bad as some guys I know, but I have nightmares sometimes. Occasional flashbacks. Loud noises can be... difficult. And… I love my brothers, but they don’t understand. None of them went to the military."
“Why did you?”
“That’s a good question. I don’t know. I wanted a different future than everyone else—something to set me apart from them. But, well, look at where that led me… Here, again.”
She absorbs this without visible reaction. "I bet they’re all proud of you, you know? And thank you for telling me."
"I hope so, but are you not worried about any of this?"
"Should I be?"
I shrug. "Most women would be."
"I'm not most women," she says simply. "And I have my own demons, Aaron."
This intrigues me. "Like what?"
She seems to debate internally before answering. "I struggle with anxiety. Social situations with too many people can be... challenging. I've worked on it for years, but it's part of why I chose teaching—it's structured, predictable. I know what's expected of me."
"Is that why you seemed so calm meeting my brothers? Because you were working through it? I know they can be a bit too much sometimes."
She gives me a small smile. "I wouldn't say calm was what I felt, but yes, I have strategies. Deep breathing, focusing on one person at a time, reminding myself that anxiety lies."
I nod, understanding. "We might be more alike than I realized."
"Perhaps that's why this arrangement appealed to both of us," she suggests. "We understand the need for space, for directness."
"I hadn't thought of it that way," I admit.
The conversation flows more easily after that. We talk about books she loves (mostly classics, some contemporary Spanish poets I've never heard of), music I listen to (old country, some indie rock that surprises her), her experiences teaching in different countries, my life on the ranch before and after the military.
I learn that she speaks four languages fluently, can't cook to save her life but bakes surprisingly well, and has a dry sense of humor that emerges once she's comfortable. I find myself telling her about my childhood rivalries with Cole, Jackson's brief rebellious phase before Dad died, and how Vincent surprised us all by being the first having a kid.
Before I know it, two hours have passed, and there's a knock at the door.
"Aaron? Elena?" It's Vincent's voice. "Charlotte's back from town. We're going to show her the new foals if you'd like to join."
I glance at Elena, who looks more relaxed than I've seen her since she arrived. "Want to see the horses?"
She nods, standing and smoothing her dress. "I'd like that."
As we move toward the door, I'm struck by how easy the conversation has been. No awkward silences, no moments where I didn't know what to say next. It's never like that for me—I'm always counting the seconds until I can escape social interaction.
"Aaron," Elena says softly before I open the door. "Thank you. For talking with me. For being honest."
"Thank you for listening," I reply, meaning it.
She smiles, and I find myself noticing the way her eyes crinkle at the corners, as well as how her dark hair has escaped its ponytail in a few places, softly framing her face.
This might work, I think, with a surge of something like hope. This crazy arrangement might actually work. I open the door to find Vincent waiting, a knowing smile on his face that I choose to ignore.
"Lead the way," I tell him, and follow Elena out into the hallway, ready to show her the first piece of what might someday be her home too.