Page 18 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

She doesn’t look up. “My brain is not soup.”

“It’s at least a gentle simmer. Maybe a rolling boil if we’re being honest.”

She sighs and sets the laptop aside, rubbing her temples. “Why is it always food metaphors with you?”

“Because I’m complex and emotionally underdeveloped. Also, hungry.”

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, reluctant but real. She leans back, arms crossed like she’s trying to build a fortress out of sarcasm.

“You’re staring at me,” she says, still not meeting my eyes.

“That’s because you’re hard to look away from. Like a car crash. Or a particularly intense TED Talk.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You married me.”

She groans, head falling back against the couch. “Will you please stop weaponizing our surprise nuptials every time I call you out?”

“Never. Legally binding love, Evans. It’s in the fine print.”

She grabs the nearest throw pillow and hurls it at me. I catch it with one hand and grin like I’ve won something, and for a moment, we’re just us again. Banter and sparks and something easy in the middle of everything that isn’t. And for a moment, it’s normal again. Us again.

She’s still leaning back against the cushions, the late afternoon light slanting in through the window, catching in the dark waves of her hair. There’s a strand falling across her cheek, and before I even think about it, I reach over and tuck it gently behind her ear. She glances at me, surprised, but doesn’t pull away. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, her eyes soft in that way that makes it hard to breathe.

“You’re beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself.

She huffs a quiet laugh, like she doesn’t believe me, but doesn’t want to argue either.

“You’re being weird,” she murmurs.

“I’m being honest.”

She doesn’t say anything for a beat, just studies my face like she’s trying to decide whether to kiss me or run for the hills.

I’d take either, honestly. But she leans just a little closer. Only a breath. Then blinks, pulls back, and reaches for her laptop again like the moment didn’t happen. And maybe it didn’t, or maybe it meant more than either of us is ready to admit. But her eyes flick away too fast. Her laugh doesn’t linger. Whatever it is she’s carrying, it’s still there. I don’t know what it is, but I know it matters. So for now, I give her the space she thinks she needs, and I let her keep her secrets. But when she’s not looking, when she’s half-asleep with her laptop sliding off her legs or when she’s brushing her teeth, humming that one tune she doesn't realize she always hums, I find myself thinking about the future. About our future.

I never thought about weddings much. Not really. But lately? I can’t help it. I picture her in something simple and elegant, no frills, Margot would never go full princess. Probably ivory silk, sleeves she can push up when she’s annoyed. Maybe barefoot, maybe somewhere coastal. I imagine Olivia crying and trying to pretend she’s not, Priya giving a toast that’s half heartfelt and half roast. I imagine us laughing and dancing. Us finally doing something on purpose.

I’d never say any of this to her. Not yet. She’d panic, deflect, throw a metaphorical pillow at my face. But I think about it. I think about it more than I probably should. And somehow, that makes her silence a little easier to carry, for now.

13

MARGOT

The nausea hits me before I even open my eyes. It’s not as sharp as yesterday, but it lingers, low and steady, curling at the edges of my stomach like an early warning system refusing to be ignored. I press the back of my hand to my mouth and breathe through it, slow and deliberate, counting each inhale until the sensation dulls enough for me to sit up.

The filtered morning light spills through the cabin windows, painting the floorboards in soft gold. The scent of cedar mingles with something faintly buttery, toast, maybe, or coffee that’s been sitting too long, and the combination makes my stomach lurch again. I push the blanket back and move toward the bathroom, careful not to wake Grayson. My steps are slow, steady, focused entirely on not making a sound.

By the time I’ve splashed water on my face and taken several deep breaths by the small window, I know I can’t keep putting this off. The secret is heavy, sitting just below my ribcage like it’s waiting for a cue. But I’m not ready to tell him. Not yet. Not when we’re still so tangled in everything else. So instead, I do the only thing that’s ever made me feel like I have control. I get to work.

The quiet of the cabin has shifted. What once felt like peace, now presses against my chest like a weight. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of pine outside, feels like a reminder that time is running out.

Grayson heads out to chop firewood, either out of necessity or just to prove he can. I don’t ask questions. I wait for the door to shut behind him, the latch to click, the sound of his boots fading down the steps. Then I move.

I grab my laptop from beneath the bench and settle at the small table by the window. The pines sway outside like they’re keeping secrets of their own. My fingers hesitate above the keyboard for only a second before I launch the secure remote system and begin combing through our backend logs again. Click. Scroll. Click. Search.

My eyes dart from line to line, hunting inconsistencies, tracking digital footprints like they might reveal a face. The screen casts a cold, bluish glow across my skin, stark against the cabin’s warm wood tones. And then, I see it. A name. A timestamp that doesn’t belong.

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