Chapter 5
FIVE
JADA
Ash visibly relaxes. I didn’t even realize he had that much tension in his body.
But me? I feel like throwing up.
Marriage has always been serious to me. Looking up to my grandparents, knowing how hard it was on my dad when my mom passed when I was four…
And yet, here I am, marrying someone I hardly know. And what I do know of him, I don’t like.
Barfing all over the place wouldn’t help this situation at all. Wait, have I eaten today?
I get up and yank open my fridge. I hate thinking of and planning meals, so when I’m at home, I basically eat an amalgamation of leftovers and things I impulse bought at the store. Right now I have lemon yogurt and some leftover banana bread from Sarah Jane’s—better than my usual offerings.
“What kind of plan?” Ash asks as I stuff some of the bread into my mouth. It’s a bit stale but still good. “We just roll with it.”
“That’s a fucking awful idea. What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask, yanking open a drawer and grabbing a spoon. “We barely know each other. We have to sell that we’re in love, not just that we’re married. Hold on. I need to brain dump.”
I grab a notepad and a pen, then sit down. My thoughts are all over the place and I need to get them on paper somehow.
I scribble everything down in the order my brain shoots them out, then rewrite all of the thoughts in a reasonable order on my second sheet of paper. He sits quietly and lets me do it, which I appreciate. Eventually I stop and stare at the page.
“I think the plan should be broken into sections. We need to sort out our backstory, how we’ll drop the bomb, the wedding, and ongoing maintenance.
” I underline the section that says backstory.
“We’ve mostly established our backstory.
Like you said, truth with a little lie. We connected around Thanksgiving, dated in secret, and are now getting married sooner than we thought we would.
But marriage was already on the table and we’re ‘in love’.
The will didn’t say anything about the timing of it. ”
“That works,” he says readily. I’m not sure if he’s just agreeing to it because he doesn’t even want a plan, or if he thinks it’s good.
“Do you think we need to be more detailed about it? Like, what if someone asks more?” I ask, tapping the end of my pen against my bottom lip.
“More than what? You think people are going to sit down and grill us about every detail of each other’s lives?” He frowns.
“Have you not been around the people of Jepsen before? Outside of your family?” I click my pen a few times. “They want to know everything. Down to where you bought your socks.”
He grumbles and slumps in his seat.
I sigh. “I’m telling you. We should at least know the basics.”
“You can google mine,” he says. “I’ve been questioned enough throughout my life.”
“About the real you?” I ask. “Like your favorite color and what you do on a rainy day?”
“Who even has a favorite color these days? They’re all good.” He sits up again, and I make a mental note about the colors. “And it depends on the rainy day. I’d probably practice or listen to music. Or hang with Dylan, because we’d probably be traveling somewhere.”
“Listen to music and do what?”
He presses his lips together, like he’s trying not to smirk. “Just listen to the music. In depth. Stare at the ceiling. Maybe draw, if I feel like it. What about you?”
I didn’t know he still drew, either, so I tuck that away.
“Probably working. If I’m not, I might lie in bed and play video games. I like cozy games.” Why does telling him this feel too intimate when I’ve told strangers this unprompted? Like he’s looking into my room while I swear at the stupid fishing portion of my favorite game.
“And you work at the hotel. What’s that like? I’ve only been there for school trips during Black History Month a million years ago.”
“Busy, like I said.” I check my phone. There’s a text from Clint, our head chef, but he said it’s not urgent.
Otherwise, everything’s fine. “But I love it. I love meeting guests and making sure they have a good stay. There’s always something going on, too.
Nothing gets boring. And there’s the history side of things. ”
The Jepsen was one of the few safe places for Black travelers in the segregation era.
Since we’re on the way to Nashville, it was a hot spot for Black musicians and civil rights leaders traveling through.
Pop loved taking photos, so we have a whole mini photography exhibit of all the famous people who have come through.
My grandparents gave them a comfortable place to sleep and a delicious meal when even going for a drive and ending up in the wrong town could be dangerous.
Ash nods. “I remember the wall of musicians and not much else.”
I snort. “At least you remember something.”
We still get school groups during Black History Month and I feel like all the kids get more and more feral each year. I don’t know how Jeremiah manages—and loves—to teach math, of all subjects.
Which reminds me of what we’re actually discussing.
“The hardest part will be telling all our friends and family.” I swallow and pet Pip on the white splotch under his chin. “I don’t want to tell them.”
“It’s not really negotiable. We have to tell them,” Ash says. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“No shit.” I sigh. “But I’m lying to everyone. To their faces.”
“And?” Ash looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on my body for a moment before snapping back to my face. Like it wasn’t intentional. What a little ego boost. Because aside from my boobs being hard to hide, I look as frazzled as I feel.
“You don’t feel bad about it?” I raise an eyebrow. “At all? I feel really bad. I don’t make it a habit to lie to my loved ones.”
“You think I do?” Ash looks annoyed for a second. I shrug. “It’s for the greater good, Jada. Remember that.”
“It’s for my greater good. And yours. And your bandmate’s,” I say. “’The rest of the world doesn’t give a shit.”
“Of course. So how do you want to tell them?” Ash asks.
I study my scribbles.
“I think we should start with the hardest targets. My dad and brother, then Waylon. I’ll take my family, and you’ll take Waylon.
Then after that, Waylon will probably tell Bianca, who’ll be polite and pretend that he didn’t tell her when I tell her and Rose and the rest of my friends.
And Waylon might tell y’all’s mom, too, and she’ll tell basically everyone in Jepsen with a pulse. ”
“You want me to tell Waylon?” Ash shifts in his seat. “He’s your best friend.”
“And he’s your brother.”
“I know, but…” He shrugs, a look I can’t quite decipher coming over his face. “You’re probably closer to him at this point.”
He sounds tired, all of a sudden.
“I’m just trying to divide up the labor. And I doubt he’d believe me anyway.” Pipsqueak starts kneading my boobs, butting his head against my chin. “I think Jeremiah will call bullshit on me immediately, but my dad might not. Jeremiah might be able to help me sell it if I can get him on my side.”
I doodle a star near where I’ve written Jeremiah’s name, then a few more to help me think. Jeremiah knows what the hotel means to me. He has to go along with it.
“Yeah, I’ll tell Jeremiah and you’ll tell Waylon at the same time. Face to face, so he’ll believe you,” I continue. “Then I’ll tell my dad, and you can tell your mom. Then we’ll tell my friends about our impending engagement and announce the marriage after it happens.”
“About that…” He rakes a hand over his head. “My band is in limbo. Going public on Instagram would make everything a whole lot messier. We still haven’t officially announced that the band is breaking up.”
“Shit.” How did I forget about the fact that he’s kind of famous?
Most people would recognize his band’s songs, for sure, but he could go through a crowd without being stopped.
They have fans who’d probably have a lot of questions if he went from band member to married and working at his family business, though.
That annoying bit of empathy for him pops up and I shove it down. Now is the time for business, not feeling bad for his rough patch being out there in public.
“The fans sense something’s up since we’ve cancelled our upcoming shows, but we’ve always been a shit show,” he says. His eyes go to Pip, or to my breasts. “Does he just…do that all the time?”
“The boobs? Yeah. He puts in overtime at the biscuit factory and I guess my tits have the best dough,” I say. “Anyway, how do we handle the fans?”
“We should only post on your account. Is it private?” he asks, pulling out his phone.
“Yes. You should probably follow me.” I tell him my handle, and I get a notification that he’s followed me moments later. “What if they find out about me? Will I get any jealous women in my DMs, telling me I don’t deserve you?”
Ash laughs a full-bellied laugh. The unfamiliar sound makes my heart flutter. It’s a nice laugh, and I have ears. My body’s reflexes can’t be stopped.
“You’re assuming I’ve read my DMs recently. Maybe they will. I’m more worried about the press, but let me handle that, okay? It’s not for the uninitiated.”
I finish my coffee, which is long cold. But the fact that he’s not going to hang me out to dry with his fans or the media warms me up a tiny bit. “Thanks.”
“I told you I’m not that big of an asshole.” He rubs his thumb along the side of the mug. “What about the wedding itself?”
“We need to get it done ASAP.” I kiss the side of Pip’s head and extract him from my boobs. “A quick courthouse thing early next week after we tell everyone, then maybe a reception? Delia will one hundred percent plan something.”
His mom’s superhero name would be The Hostess, because she’s always ready to have people over and blast them in the face with Southern hospitality.
“Not if I tell her not to.” He scoffs. “What do we need a big party for?”
“To show we’re in love? It wouldn’t hurt,” I say. “And your mom will love planning a party. She planned that one for Waylon’s fourth grade graduation that involved catering and a band. You think you can get away with not having a party for your wedding?”
He stares at me for a few long beats, then sighs, defeated. “I’ll tell her to tone it down.”
Delia has never toned anything down in her life, but he knows that deep in his heart. I don’t need to tell him.
“When can I move in?” he asks after a long pause.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Yeah, we’ll get married and I’ll continue to live at home,” he says with a snort. “When can I move in? I’m losing my mind living with my parents.”
I blink and look around my apartment. My little sanctuary, where everything is exactly as I want it to be. Where everything works for my brain when most of the world doesn’t.
Then I look at Ash. A man. Touching my soaps and body oils. Drinking the fancy little drinks I impulse buy to brighten my day. Maybe even walking around semi-naked.
Not sure if that last one is a pro or a con.
Who am I kidding? It’s totally a con, because I’m sexually frustrated enough. I don’t need to add a man I won’t ever touch to the equation.
But if we were in love, we’d obviously live together. Sleep together, even. I’d be thrilled to have him everywhere.
I let my head fall back so I can look at the ceiling.
“Ugh. You’re sleeping on the couch and you have to follow my rules,” I say. “I guess you can move in after we tell everyone.”
“Fine with me.” He drums his fingers on the table, leveling me with a look that makes my body heat. “What about sex?”
“Nope,” I say immediately. “We don’t have to take it that far.”
He holds his hand up just as quickly as I’d responded. “I had to ask. And I’m assuming sex with other people is also off the table. For both of us.”
“Right.”
Not that I’m getting laid any time soon, even though my sex drought is driving me insane. Troy didn’t have the highest sex drive, so when things were rocky between us, we never had sex. So I had dry spells even when I was in a relationship.
He blows out a breath, like the lack of sex is the first time he’s fully understood the gravity of what we’re doing. A whole year with just our own hands and/or tools of the trade.
I let out a breath, too. Okay, I understand where he’s coming from.
“But we’ll have to touch. Kiss,” he says. His eyes are so distractingly gorgeous. His brothers all have brown eyes, but his are a touch more green.
“Right. Within reason. Nothing too handsy.”
“Of course. What’s the safe word?” he asks. “If you’re uncomfortable.”
“If either of us are uncomfortable,” I say, “then we’ll say…soup, I guess.”
“Easy to remember.”
He looks at me like he wants to kiss me. I don’t know if I can handle that yet, so I look down at the table.
“What else are we missing?” I ask, turning off the first of my alarms that tell me to get out of bed and get ready for work.
“Oh, the loose ends. Grace is really the only person outside of Jeremiah who knows about what I need to do to inherit the hotel. I didn’t want to worry everyone with my BS.
But she knows what’s at stake, so she’ll stay quiet. ”
“Good.”
We sit in silence, aside from Pip’s squeaks and meows. I take another deep breath and let it out.
“The divorce,” he finally says. “After a year. I’m assuming it’ll be simple because we won’t have any assets or anything. But I’ll pay for it.”
“Right. Thanks.” The idea of being divorced is just as weird as being married, but that’s future Jada’s problem. “Shake on it?”
I extend my hand. He doesn’t look at it—he just looks at me, those greenish brown eyes reaching parts of me that I want to keep hidden. But I can’t.
“Deal,” he says, finally shaking my hand.