Page 61 of Finding Forever

“Cade?” She should drop it. Fern was aware of that and she wasn’t certain why she was pressing him on this. She had no clue where this newfound audacity stemmed from. But she knew she’d regret it if she pushed him further.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he said. His voice was gruff, the words reluctantly conceded.

“The wrong idea?” She was confused, not sure what—if anything—to read into those words.

“About us. I’d prefer it if we remained distant, polite acquaintances.”

“For three years?” She couldn’t quite keep the incredulity from her voice. “Why can’t we at least try to be friends?”

“To what end? I don’t need another friend, Fern.”

“I do,” she whispered, embarrassed by the throb of loneliness in her voice, but unable to disguise it in anyway.

“That’s not—” He hesitated, clearly wondering how blunt to be, but after that moment’s pause he shook his head and let her have it with both barrels. “That’s not my problem. It’s yours. I refuse to be your crutch. I don’t want to be your friend. Or your confidante. I don’t want to hear about your past, or your future aspirations. I don’t care about any of that. All I care about is getting through this marriage with as little emotional investment—from the both of us—as possible.”

She shouldn’t have asked. She should have listened to her gut and just left it alone. But she had to push him and now there was this line in the sand. One which had always been there, but which she’d kind of hoped they could overcome. But that line had become a fifty-foot wall and there was no scaling it. No tearing it down.

“I don’t need a crutch,” she denied. “Unlike you, I just happen to believe that the easiest, most adult way for us to getthrough this marriage—as you so quaintly put it—is to at least be on amicable terms.”

“I prefer impersonal to amicable.”

“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear.” Fern dipped her chin in a curt nod, pinching her lips together as she gathered up a few of her shopping bags. “So be it. No smiles and no friendship and no meaningful conversations. Got it.”

Cade reached for her remaining purchases and she leveled a frigid glare on him that—unbelievably—managed to freeze him in place.

“I’ll get them myself. You wouldn’t want me mistaking your helpful overture as a friendly gesture now, would you? God forbid I should misread any of your signs.”

“Perhaps I merely find it expedient to help you,” he elaborated, shaking off the ice in her voice and picking up the bags regardless of her command not to.

“Yes, of course,” she said, her tone acerbic. “The sooner my stuff is moved out of the foyer, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair. Got it.”

“My home is your home for now,” he said, exasperation once again lacing the edges of his words. “You don’t have to get out of my hair, Fern. You live here too. We just need to respect each other’s space and privacy.”

“Like I haven’t been doing that all along,” she couldn’t help but reply, weariness tugging at every word as the emotional and physical exertion of the day abruptly caught up with her.

“What’s wrong?”

Was he serious with that ridiculous question? The man had the emotional intelligence of a socially awkward gnat. And to think, Fern had once believedshewas bad. Compared to her husband, she had the emotional and social aptitude of a promiscuous butterfly.

“Are you ill?” he asked and sherolled her eyes.

“I’m tired. And nauseous. I just want to get these to my room, have a hot shower, and take a nap.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Stop, please,” she said, her voice so dry it cracked. “These frantic questions are going to delude me into thinking you care. And we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

“I care about you possibly passing out in the living room, yes. I care about potentially having to call an ambulance or doctor to our home and alerting the public that all is not as it should be with our marriage.”

“Oh please, if they should ever find out about my pregnancy, they’ll believe that all is exactly as itshouldbe in our marriage,” she dismissed, quite proud of the scathing note in her voice. She turned her back on him and made her way to her room, acutely aware of him following closely behind her.

He didn’t step more than a foot into her bedroom, leaving her packages right inside the door.

“If you’re sure you’re alright, I’ll leave you to it,” he said, looking keen to beat a hasty retreat.

“Thank you.”

When he didn’t immediately flee, she canted her head and stared up at him inquiringly. She wished he would leave, she was sick of putting up this tough, unconcerned front. She wanted to sink onto her bed and just process the last few minutes. Maybe have a little bit of a sulk and a cry.

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