Chapter 18
Eighteen
I grip the sides of the pan of green bean casserole—the one Roman made—and sit in the passenger seat of his Bronco.
“Is this because I had to take a walk instead of going through the household routine questions with you? Is that why you’re making me do this?
I told you, if I don’t walk half a mile before eleven a.m. my legs give out.
” I swallow past the lump in my throat as I repeat avoidance tactic number eight.
I’m keeping track. I can’t use the same one twice.
“I think we both need this. We haven’t been out of the cabin in over two weeks.”
“Not true. You went into town for groceries. And for that team meeting.”
“Yeah,” Roman says. “Me. Not you. Stell, you need people. You’re disheartened.”
I do feel on edge and not myself. Apparently, your life falling apart as well as marrying someone on a whim while lying to them daily does not help lift your spirits. “I am an introvert,” I retort. “I don’t need people.”
“You absolutely need people. You always have. You just have a time limit, and you need to recharge alone.”
I grip the warm pan in my lap tighter and stare out the windshield. “Did you read that in the book Willow mailed me?” I haven’t opened the thing. Why would I want to read something called Whispering into the Void: One Introvert’s Memoir?
“I’m serious, Stella. You don’t want to work with me on green card questions. You won’t call your mother.”
“Ha!” I cry. “That’s not new.”
“You also haven’t made a thing on your pottery wheel. You haven’t left the house—”
“I go for a walk every day. I saw the tails of my skunk friends clear across the woods.”
“I’m serious. And I’m getting worried. You can’t live like this for a year.” Roman’s face tightens with thoughtfulness. “Or however long we need. Is it a year?” He lifts one hand from the steering wheel and waves off his question. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t live like this.”
Why not? Hiding in Roman’s cabin sounds like my best bet. Why would I want to come out to the real world, the one I am failing in?
I realized the other day that, at some point, I will have to announce our divorce to my parents.
Divorce.
Isn’t that just another failure? Something to bring them sorrow.
The thought makes me want to hyperventilate.
Wow—Stella, you did not think this one through.
Nope, I saw an out, and I jumped into a river of boiling hot lava.
Brilliant.
“I’m fine,” I lie. Lying got me into this mess … maybe, eventually, it’ll get me out.
“We’re here. We have green beans. Let’s give it a try, and if you absolutely need out, text me ‘911’.”
“So cliché,” I groan, for no better reason than to be disagreeable.
“Fine then, text me ‘turkey trot’.”
I snort out a laugh. “Are you kidding?”
Roman gives one small shrug. “What do you want to text me, then?”
“How about ‘Lucca Cruz has a seriously fine toosh’?”
Roman’s jaw clenches. “If you text me that, I’m leaving you at Baxter’s to live permanently.”
I clasp my hands together. “I’m sorry, Roman.
I’ll behave. I’m just anxious.” I need to check my attitude.
I need to remember that none of this is Roman’s fault.
I mean, it’s a little his fault. He did announce to a news reporter that we were getting married.
But to save me. That man is a regular Clark Kent.
I glance over at my husband. My husband, the hero.
Dark hair, magical blue eyes, a tattoo that suspiciously looks to be written in my brother’s handwriting, and that dimple.
My stomach flips, and I remind it that we aren’t here to fall for Roman Graves.
Brice forbade it long ago, and Roman would never see me like that.
The green beans in my lap are a constant reminder that none of this is real. How are green beans so ominous? Well, when Roman said that green bean casserole was the only Thanksgiving dish he could think to make, I told him, Fantastic. Wonderful. I can’t wait.
Only, I hate green bean casserole.
Just another lie. This casserole is like the soggy symbol of our entire marriage.
I’m Richard Nixon. Green beans and green cards are my personal Watergate.
“Ready?” Roman says, in the driver’s seat, engine off. He may be a grouch to his teammates, but never to me. To me, he has been nothing but kind.
So I nod, swallow down the failure and guilt that are making me overly moody, and offer my husband a smile. “Sure.”
To my surprise, Roman holds out a hand to me. Unclawing my fingers from around this casserole dish full of lies, I set my hand in his. “We can do this,” he says, and I’m not sure if it’s for my benefit or his own.
Roman Graves of nine years ago loved a social gathering, but the Roman of today does not. This might be harder for him than it is for me. I squeeze his fingers, bringing to life fluttering in my stomach once more. He gives me one encouraging nod.
I force my gaze from his and peer in front of us. A large iron gate attached to a tall wall surrounds a house just beyond. Roman rolls down his window and types in a code on a keypad attached to the gate, which promptly and steadily swings open for us.
I dip my head and peer out the windshield. “Holy crap, Roman!” I bark, letting go of him and gripping the pan in my lap once more. “This mansion is where we’re eating dinner?”
“It’s not a mansion,” he says, his tone droll.
“It is too. I thought you were a minor league team.”
Roman sighs out a tired breath as if he gets this a lot—he doesn’t. He can’t. He’s not taking girls to random mansions every other week and discussing them. “Our owner is Will Baxter. Have you heard of him?”
My brows cinch together as I think. “Have I?”
“He’s quite wealthy.”
“Is he Canadian?” I ask, as if it would help.
Roman laughs at that. “No.”
I shrug. I can’t place the name. “I don’t think I’ve heard of him.”
“It’s not like you spend a lot of time researching billionaires. Anyway, he’s one of—”
“Whoa.” I release both sides of my lying green bean casserole and hold out two stop signs. “Did you say billion? With a B?”
“I did.”
My mouth goes dry, and I peer over at Roman. “This is going to be an interesting night, isn’t it?”
Roman stares back at me. “Oh, for sure.”