Ruby #2
“Sure is.” Miles grins, looking exceptionally pleased with himself, while my insides are churning butter. “My future wife and I will be officially betrothed tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Does that mean tonight is your bachelor party?”
“Absolutely not . . .” He pauses, scratching through his beard. “Although, come to think of it, I suppose it is. I've never pictured myself getting married. Therefore, no, never thought about a bachelor party—”
“You've never pictured yourself getting married?” I ask, trying to keep the shock from my voice.
“Not really. Takes a lot to capture my heart.” He winks, and despite myself, I laugh.
I don’t know why it seems so odd to me when nothing about him remotely screams commitment.
Which begs the question, why am I doing this again?
Before we all manage to get outside, Story turns around and stops us, hands up and blocking anyone from passing.
“I’m taking charge of events tonight, and I’ve decided we’re going out for dinner. The four of us, Max . . . and Ruby, is there anyone you’d like to bring?”
I shake my head. The only person I can think of who would want to come is Meg, but she’s got the week off and drove to Denver to see her sister.
“No, it’ll just be me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Positive.”
Her head tilts, regarding me with curiosity before she speaks again. “Okay then, next question, have either of you given any thought about what you’re going to wear?”
Miles’s heavy brows drop, and he glances at Hendricks.
Hendricks shrugs. I’ve noticed they do this a lot, even in the brief amount of time I’ve spent with them.
They communicate silently. But more than that, it seems like Miles looks to Hendricks for approval, and for someone who doesn’t seem to give a fuck what anyone else thinks, it’s almost endearing.
“No, Story, we haven’t. Considering this was only decided yesterday and today’s been taken up with getting the horses ready for flying, court filings, and paperwork meetings, wardrobe hasn’t been a top priority for us.
” He glances down at his jeans, then over to me in jodhpurs and a shirt. “This is fine.”
“It isn’t fine.” If Story hadn’t already told me she was a schoolteacher, I could have guessed. She’s got that tone where you do what she says, whether you want to or not.
“If you’re getting married, then it won’t be in a pair of horse hair-covered jeans and smelling of manure.”
Turning to the side, and as subtly as possible, I take a deep sniff. She must have been talking about Miles, because I do not smell like manure.
“Well, I’ll take that on board.”
“Nope. No taking on board. It’s done. In fact, you boys can piss off for ice cream with Max. I'm taking Ruby shopping.”
I balk. It might have been mildly amusing to see Miles squirm under her insistence, but the idea of shopping has me fumbling around for an excuse I can use.
“Honestly, no need. I’m sure I can find something in my bag to wear.
I want to stay with the horses, and I need to make sure Maverick is settled. ”
“Ice cream,” says Max, tugging on Hendricks’s hand, only to be ignored.
“See, she's the perfect woman for me.” Miles marches over and, before I can stop him, slings his arm around my shoulder, and I’m enveloped in the scent of cedar and leather, rich and masculine, and definitely not manure.
Unfortunately for both of us, my entire body stiffens, and he drops his arm just as quickly. “I apologize.”
Hendricks snorts loudly. Story’s less subtle.
“Jeez, if this is going to be believable, you can’t behave like that.” She curls into Hendricks's side just to prove her point.
But she’s right. Much to my annoyance, Miles will have to touch me, at least in public.
“Um, could everyone just give us a minute?”
“Ice creeeeeaaamm,” Max repeats.
“Sure, Maxy, let’s go.” Hendricks grabs Max and spins him toward the door before marching them both out.
Story follows, and once the door is closed, I slowly turn to Miles.
“What’s up, wifey? Sorry, future wifey—”
“Don't call me that.”
He holds his hands up in defense. “I'm kidding, sorry, what’s up?”
“I . . .” Shit. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I was planning to say. The room feels like it’s spinning around me.
“Ruby?”
My eyes find his. The blue is so startling it’s like the rest of him is sepia. It’s so distracting that it reminds me of what I wanted to say.
“This marriage might be for the visa, so I come to England and ride for you, and learn to play polo, but I have a reputation to uphold.”
He frowns, looking so genuinely confused it’s almost insulting. “Do you?”
“Yes, and you have one to transform.”
“I do?”
“Yes, you do, because it’s currently as polo’s most prolific womanizer.”
Miles scoffs. “Prolific. I hardly think so.”
“What would you call it then?”
“I would call it . . .” He thinks for a beat, and then I swear there’s teasing in his tone when he replies, “Discerning.”
My eyes roll heavily. “Potato potatoh, it doesn't make it better. Everyone knows what polo players are like. If I had a dollar for every time . . .” I stop talking because I have no intention of getting into a debate with Miles Burlington about the number of women I’ve heard talk about his dick. He’d want me to rank them.
“Every time . . .”
I slice a hand through the air. “It doesn’t matter. My point is, if I'm marrying you, this has to look real. And other people need to believe it. You have to behave like a real husband.”
“What does a real husband behave like?”
“No other women, for one.” I shrug, my brain whirling for ideas about what couples behave like.
It’s both immensely pathetic and somewhat humiliating that I don’t actually know. I think about my mom and dad . . .
“Where are we going to live?” I blurt.
His eyes narrow slightly, and he looks at me curiously. There’s definitely amusement there, like I’m the only one taking this seriously.
“Well . . . we’ll live in my cottage, in Valentine Nook. It’s close to Foxleigh.”
“This arrangement doesn’t include sex . . .”
God, what the hell is wrong with me? Why did I have to bring up sex, because now that’s all I’m thinking about. Sex and him. Having sex with him. My cheeks tingle, and it takes all my concentration to push down the flush creeping over them.
“I thought we’d already established that.
” He raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to catch on.
My guess is he’s referring to me kicking McTavish in the balls.
Good, then he knows what I’m capable of.
“You’ll have your own room, don’t worry.
Strictly marriage on paper only . . . Any other concerns you’d like to raise? ”
I shrug and try to swallow my embarrassment. “I dunno, are your parents still married? How does your dad behave?”
Sadness flashes behind his eyes, and when he answers, his tone is flat. “He doesn't. He died.”
I feel like a total asshole. “I'm so sorry . . .” I say, but he brushes me off with a flick of his hands.
“It was a long time ago, but whatever, I got it. Behave like a real husband.” He ticks the air and narrows his eyes. “Which means you must behave like a real wife. Try to keep the flinching to a minimum.”
Sounds reasonable. “Fine.”
I pull my hand out, and he takes it, bringing it down in a firm shake. Why does it somehow feel like I’ve made a deal with the devil?