Page 72 of Marrying the Gardener
“You seem to have been avoiding him during the past week.”
My stomach tightens. “That’s…nothing. Over now.” I eat another bite, hoping there’s another whole carton in the freezer. “Yup. Don’t worry about it.”
“Did something happen?”
Did something happen? Yes. Something did happen. I have come to feel a closeness of spirit with a man who entices me toward the sharing of germs. However, as far as you may know atthis juncture, the germs have been well and fully shared to such an extent that I am even presently growing a little germ parasite in my gut.
I hate this ruse. I swear, if my father or grandfather do not stop by before everything is said and done, I am going to be peeved.
Or, then again…maybe I won’t be. Precautions are good to take, but I won’t exactly be upset if my girls never come into contact with the men in my family. Nobody needs that.
Nobody needs men, period.
Bah.
I eat another spoonful of ice cream.
“Crimson?” Ava murmurs, making me tense.
She doesn’t use my given name unless something’s wrong. Even when I was a child, I was alwaysMs. Nightingale.
Cautious, I lift my attention to her, find severity in her deep blue eyes as she wipes her hands on her apron and steps away from the kitchen sink. “You’d tell me if something were wrong, wouldn’t you?”
“Wrong?” I ask, voice thin. “Wrong like how?”
“Is Kaleb mistreating you?”
I freeze with my next spoonful of ice cream an inch from my lips. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re sure?” she presses. “He’s not being too rough, is he?”
The man has literal wounds where I’ve sunk my nails into him. If anyone’s beingrough, it’s me. Averting my eyes, I stuff the spoonful in my mouth. “Kaleb is very gentle.” I remember the plot. “In a sexy, assertive way.” What am I saying? Why is this the plot?
Deadpan, Ava repeats, “In a…sexy, assertive…way? What does that mean?”
How am I supposed to know? I’d very much like to exit this conversation now. “The point is, no, he’s not mistreating me.”I’m a lass in love. Abuse isn’t real. And I’m red-green color blind.
The fact I stiffen when Kaleb himself appears at the entry to the kitchen—gripping the archway and eyeing me like a predator—is surely unrelated. Smirking like a scumbag, hesauntersto me, tips up my chin, and steals my last bite of ice cream. “Baby,” he murmurs, “did you eat that entire thing all by yourself?”
I look down and discover I have indeed. “It would…seem so.”
Rounding my seat, he braces his hands at my shoulders and kneads, tutting, “You can’t let yourself go just because you’ll have an excuse for gaining weight soon, Crimson.” Lowering his mouth to my ear, he whispers, “Everything okay, Rose-red?”
I mean. Everythingwasokay, before you decided to bulldoze myeverything’s fineconversation with the most classic and overrated red flag of all time.
While Ava glares Kaleb down, Adelhilde enters the kitchen to begin her evening prep for dinner, and I relish the distraction. “Evening, miss! Evening…sir.” Providing Kaleb with a curt nod, she begins gathering ingredients from the fridge.
“Adelhilde,” Kaleb says, still kneading my shoulders, “what’s for dinner?”
“Fettuccine alfredo with broccoli and chicken, sir. A favorite of Mrs. Nightingale’s.”
“Carbs and cheese,” he muses, eyeing me, and I’d be more annoyed—probably—if this massage weren’t so amazing. “How’s a grilled chicken salad sound instead, Crimson? Lean meat would be better for the baby.”
Is that a fact?
I’m not sure I saw that in my cursory research ofwhat’s it like to be pregnant. But, then again, it was extremely cursory, that research, and up until twelve seconds ago I did fully forget that I was pregnant, so who knows?
Before I can fetch an answer from my foggy brain, Adelhilde’s brows hike up, and she points her frying pan atKaleb. “I can make you a grilled chicken salad, sir. Ma’am’s gonna have her alfredo, and you ain’t gonna say another word about it.”
