Chapter 10 Everly
EVERLY
Day one is done and the Cookie Dough Diary sees a lot of ink as I rant about Greyson Harris Adams. When I set my pen down, the pages flutter and I spot the Viking I drew on the airplane. It’s hard to deny he shares an uncanny likeness with the man I drew earlier while asking Grey about himself.
At one point, our hands brushed and I still tingle all over. Inside and out. Top to bottom. Yes, even my lips, bringing the kissituation vibrantly, vividly to mind.
Strange getting to know your husband by interviewing him, asking about his statistics and hobbies.
Don’t even get me started about how grumpy, gruff, and grouchy he is. He could be holding a baby, surrounded by puppies, and eating ice cream and he’d still have a scowl on his face. I’m not sure who or what bit him on the butt, but I’m not his biggest fan, cheerleading his grumpiness.
Then again, he’s probably just mad that he got in trouble for #BruiserButt and is stuck here with me instead of doing whatever Viking raiders do during their time off.
Eat those grisly-looking turkey legs? Drink flagons of mead? Sharpen their axes?
To be clear, even though Grey is a beast of a man, he doesn’t scare me. While there’s nothing gentle about him, he’s not like Todd, who has vampire-like qualities, and I don’t mean the Edward Cullen kind. Then again, I was more of a Team Jacob gal myself.
My stomach remains in knots at the steady stream of Todd’s harassing texts, demanding we get married. Complaining about how we let everyone down. Questions about what to do with the gifts.
I’m tempted to reply that he should’ve thought about that when he shacked up with the sidepiece, but I restrain myself. Contacting him would be like inviting said vampire into my life and I recently used up the last of my stash of garlic and wooden stakes.
Journaling about my unusual day and reunion with my husband, now a client, doesn’t do anything to quiet the repetitive thought that these circumstances are beyond bizarre.
Despite my background in life coaching, which I studied to increase myself as an asset at my old job, I can’t reconcile today’s encounter.
It doesn’t make sense. The tools for how to handle it don’t exist because I can’t think of any case studies where a man and woman secretly get married for reasons of convenience, don’t ever expect to see each other again, and then are forced to work together, she as a coach and he as the client.
The resources don’t exist. I’m flying solo on this one, just when I thought I finally landed—a new life, a new job, and I could use some new clothes because my suitcase still isn’t here.
I could also go for some cookie dough comfort right about now.
The manor is vast with labyrinthine halls lined with oil paintings in heavy frames, sconces glowing on the walls, and plush carpet upstairs that gives way to marble on the lower level. I got lost a few times today, which is fitting, considering my situation.
There’s a kitchen where an in-house chef prepares meals, as well as an employee lounge with sofas, tables, and a kitchenette. I consider borrowing ingredients so I can make myself some happiness in a bowl.
Through the window, the moon rises over the mountain view in the distance. It’s just after nine pm. The shops in the village close early, but it’s probably not too late for me to see what I can scrounge up downstairs.
This place is way too fancy for my dress with the daisies, but it’s all I have for now. I slip on the silly magenta ballet flats and pad down the hall. During the day, the manor is inviting in its opulent way, but after sunset, I’m not going to lie, I get goosebumps.
The faux candles in the sconces flicker on the walls. The building’s creaks and groans make my skin pebble with goosebumps. I could use a Ghostbuster or Grey as a backup. But cookies call and after a few wrong turns, I find my way to the massive kitchen and flick on a light.
Phew! Nothing but a vast space with stainless steel work tables and state-of-the-art appliances that contrast with the otherwise antique and classic style of the manor.
I don’t know what Cateline will say if she finds me down here, but I’ll replace whatever ingredients I use and ply her with a bowl of cookie dough. No one has ever been able to resist my recipe. Then again, she seems more of a chocolate kind of gal, the darker the better.
“Come to me, cookie dough ingredients,” I say, wiggling my fingers.
It takes me about ten minutes to find what I’m looking for, which isn’t exactly the typical roster of flour, baking soda, and sugar. There’s a secret ingredient. Wink. Wink.
After mixing up the batch, I decide to head to the teacher’s lounge, hoping maybe some of the other coaches are there and we can swap stories and strategize, because if the rest of the guys are anything like Grey, they too have their hands full.
It’s spooky in here at night, so with the bowl in hand, I hurry through the halls like the floor is lava and I don’t want to catch Slimer’s attention.
The teacher’s lounge is dark and empty, reminding me that this isn’t the college dorm where I’ll find people hanging out at all hours.
Technically, it’s not even late. My grandmother, in her elder years, lived in a community residence and they’d play canasta until midnight.
I bet Goodie is up. I could text her, but I have been avoiding my phone because Todd won’t leave me alone.
The house we bought together is still for sale, and in case he finds a heart beating in his chest and wants to slip me a twenty, I refrain from blocking him. But don’t be fooled, my finger hovers over those aggressive red letters B-L-O-C-K every time his name scrolls across my screen.
And yes, a twenty-dollar bill would be great, and I wouldn’t say no to twenty thousand or my portion of the down payment either.
Once upon a time, I was a successful business consultant.
Respected in my field. I also had in my possession a beautiful wardrobe, a five-step skin care system routine, and discretionary spending money for things like coffee and cookie dough supplies.
Then along came the Spider. That’s what he’s called in the business world.
My father is the Ice King. Yeah, I sure know how to pick them.
Although I guess I didn’t pick Draven Lefevre, a former top hockey player in the NHL turned metal magnate, to be my father.
In a word, the man is cold. Yeah, as ice. I said it.
He was the king of distant and dismissive. Meanwhile, I did everything I could to get his attention.
Colored on the walls with crayons? Check
Pretended I was a puppy at the princess party? Check
Ran away with the circus? Check
Dressed up as Darth Vader and serenaded the lunch room? Check
Backflips on ice skates? Check
Rainbow Bright hair? Check
Questionable boyfriends? Check
When none of that worked and a vat of homebrewed kombucha exploded in the kitchen, I decided to switch tactics and be the good girl.
I improved my grades. Attended Dad’s alma mater, not that the star hockey player had much affinity for class when he was a student, but they sure like the alumni support.
I yes sir’ed myself into nearly making the biggest mistake of my life when he proposed I marry Todd.
Yes, the Ice King all but sent me out the door with a dowry in the name of a smart business partnership.
I poke around in the teacher’s lounge, hoping to find a “Grab and Garb” box like we had in the college dorm. Students could donate clothes they no longer wanted and others could take something they did, but had to leave something in return.
Though college is well behind me as I approach thirty. This setting reminds me of living on campus with the student and teacher element, though I guess the roles are reversed.
A thump and a bump sound from what I think is the other side of the wall and I jump. If this place is haunted, am I safer here out in the open where someone will find me, or am I better off in my room?
Being frozen with indecision is nothing new.
I’ve been told that I overthink, overlove, overcare, overanalyze, and overstress.
And when I do make a decision, I often question its sensibility in hindsight.
I also tend to oversleep and overeat, hence the Cookie Dough Diary, where I can digest my thoughts, feelings, fears, and confusion.
This prompts my decision and I opt to head back to my room, where I can sketch until I process this strange feeling of unreality of having met my husband here at Blancbourg.
I grew up in a cold, modern home of my father’s design. Unlike the classic style of the manor with corniced ceilings, wood and wallpaper, oil paintings and antiques along with low lighting, it was metal and glass.
If ghosts were real, a wraith would haunt my father’s home. This place has more headless horseman vibes.
Dipping my finger into the bowl for a bite of dough for fortification, as I turn the corner, a shadow, low on the wall, flickers.
I go still because ghosts! It’s small at first but grows until it looms like a giant raccoon stalking through the forest on its way to rummage through the campground trash cans.
Then a large man with broad shoulders, a beard, and wild hair comes into focus.
From what I’ve seen, ordinarily, Grey walks like a man who knows where he’s going and who he is. He can handle himself and me, as it turns out. But right now, he looks lost. Haggard. Like he’s sleepwalking or pacing around because he can’t sleep.
“What are you doing up?” he asks.
“I’d rather have it be a raccoon,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Never mind. What are you doing up?” I counter.
Today, being around these football players is like visiting a city where everything is taller than you, crowding the sky. All I can do is look up.
On my way to Grey’s eyes, I lock on his lips, waiting for him to answer. Obviously. I’m not thinking about the kissituation. Probably.
He doesn’t answer, but his gaze dims in the low light, telling a story. I see an ache trying to burn its way through a wall he built as a buffer to keep emotion out and emptiness in.
Why would someone do that? Because in the short term, it’s easier to deal with than pain.
He glances down at me, glancing up at him. His eyes float to my lips. His were the last I kissed.
A list builds in my mind—yes, I need some clothing and bath products, but it has to do with the kiss. Perhaps, if I write a pros and cons list of the kiss, I’ll be able to stop thinking about it and get through the next thirty days.
“I’ll trade you some kissy dough for a T-shirt.”
Grey’s head snaps to the side. “What?”
As my cheeks heat to three hundred and fifty degrees, as if preparing to cook the cookie dough, I hold up the bowl. “I said cookie dough. Sheesh. What did you think I said?”
He scrubs his hand down his face. “Never mind and no thank you.”
“But I will take a shirt.”
“Like a Bruisers shirt? Want me to sign it too?” His tone suggests he’ll do no such thing.
“No, Sir Grumps-a-lot. I don’t want your signature, I already got the ring.” I hold up my hand and twinkle my fingers.
His expression turns prehistoric. Pure stone from the center of the earth.
“Apparently, you do not find that funny. Fair enough. I need a shirt to sleep in.” I explain about my luggage being lost.
His broad shoulders, always held at attention like he was once in the military, drop on a sigh. He turns back the way he came and calls softly over his shoulder. “Come on.”
I follow Grey down one of the many hallways in this manor—the place is a maze. We reach a wooden door almost identical to mine.
“Be right back.” He goes inside.
“I’ll wait right here then,” I say to the door as it closes inches from my nose.
Note to self: instruct Grumpy-pants, er, Grumpy-shirt, about accessway customs.
When Grey returns, a moment later, he passes me a T-shirt. “This okay?”
Like a little weirdo, I bring it to my nose and inhale.
“What are you—?”
Inhaling his fresh split wood scent was a mistake because my voice gets all raspy when I say, “Just making sure it’s clean.”
“I wouldn’t give you a dirty shirt. I’m not some kind of caveman.”
“Could have fooled me,” I say with a smile.
The comment prompts the vision of Grey doing domestic, normal, and everyday things, which is at odds with his Viking appearance. And, not going to lie, it’s hot, like this oven is on the fritz hot. The heat from the pair of ovens occupying my cheeks travels through the rest of my body.
“You good?” he asks.
“Oh yeah, great. Just...baking, thinking.” A sigh spills out of me as I look dreamily into the distance.
“I should be sleeping.”
“Mmhmm. Me too.” But gazing up at Grey, backlit by the soft light in his room, I have a feeling I’ll be dreaming of a domestic Viking, who, after splitting wood, comes in and sorts his mixed colors warrior-wear for the washing tub.
Leaning in the doorway with his arms folded, he says, “Night.”
But gazes locked, neither one of us moves. I’m recalling the light streaming through the windows in the courthouse. The smudge on the wedding officiant’s eyeglasses. Grey’s heavy hands in mine and the exact moment when I met his eyes.
Much like now, our gazes hold as if we’re both asking whether we are actually going through with the marriage of convenience. And much like now, neither one of us backs away.
When the words, You may kiss, met my ears, there was no question.
Grey and I are physically in a similar position now, facing each other. All I’d have to do is lift onto my tiptoes. He’d close the space between us. Our lips would press together in less than a breath.
It’s like we both dance with desire, temptation, and the lingering memory of the kissituation.
But neither of us makes a move in any direction. The building creaks, snapping me out of my trance. The corner of my lip lifts when I see just how heavy Grey’s eyes are, focused on me, no doubt mirroring my thoughts.
Or it could be jet lag.
At last, when I turn to leave, I expect to hear the door close, but he remains there, watching me walk away.
Over my shoulder, I say, “Sweet dreams, Viking.”