Page 87 of Marrying the Gardener
“Howdareyou. Mere weeks after your grandfather’s passed away.” He struggles, meaninglessly against Esmee’s hold. “Have you no shame? What would he think of this?”
Frankly, I don’t think he’s thinking anything, because he’s dead. But, sure, let’s give the dead guy a vote in the ring. His opinion matters more than the alive woman in front of you.
How silly and stupid my father is.
Relaxed, I muse, “Grandfather said I was his legacy. You’ll excuse me if I took that statement to mean he wanted me doing more with my life than sending letters and attending parties and making social calls on your behalf.” He didn’t. He absolutelyonly meant he wanted me doing all of that—and raising a family of strapping young men.
But dear old dad doesn’t need to know that.
Sputtering curses, my father writhes against Esmee’s hold as she drags him out of my office. The whole way, he’s shouting words at me that may have stung, once, days ago even… You know, before I was seated in a penthouse office in a town that my soon-to-be husband’s brother runs, gathering together the stable foundation of a business that is already picking up speed and bringing in returns. Tutting, I murmur, “Hormones,” and my male bodyguard laughs. Becausehehas a sense of humor andknows how to take a joke.
Turning to him, I smile, “Thank you, Ron. You can return to your other post now.”
“Yes’m.”
As he starts to leave, my intercom buzzes, and my secretary, Morris, says, “Ma’am, there’s someone else here to see you.”
An unnamedsomeone else. Hm. I wonder who that could be.
Pressing the button, I say, “Send him in.”
Ahimdoes not march through my doors, or at least not immediately. Instead, Crisis—arms crossed—passes Ron on his way out and says, “Him?You wanted me to be ahim? No love for your wife at all. You only think of your side-husband.”
Joy flourishes in my heart as I rise and meet Crisis in the center of my fresh white throw rug. “Dearness,” I say, enveloping her in a tight hug, that she refuses to return.
Sniffing instead, she says, “Your office is lovely. A lovely place for you to ignore me.”
Drama, drama. I snuggle my beautiful soulmate, cooing, “Shh, my dearest love, do not fret so. I am soon to cover the walls with pictures of you.”
“Do you even want to marry me anymore? Have I been adjusting my Canva Whiteboard fornothing?”
“No, no. Don’t be so cold. Of course I want to marry you still. I always have. We both just needed my rotten family out of the way.”
Ever since my formal engagement, she’s been adjusting her whiteboard to include a double wedding. Getting married together is so very twin of us. And I could not be more excited to take her hands in mine as we say our vows.
Behind her—expression soft, gentle, and patient—Kaleb sighs, body arced against the doorjamb.
Still cuddling Crisis, I say, “Hello, fiancé.”
Looking hopelessly handsome in a plaid shirt that clashes firmly with the gold and white accents in my recently-furnished office, Kaleb murmurs, “Hi, Rose-red.”
“Don’t look at him. You’re paying attention to me.” Crisis pouts when I return my attention to her—the most important person in my life.
Grinning, I tap a kiss to her forehead. “Of course, my heart. Kaleb, if you’ll excuse me, my wife would like to discuss the renewing of our vows. I’ve written her a novella, I fear, and I need help trimming it down, lest our guests wait a millenia.”
“Let them wait.” She clasps my hand when I pull out of the hug. “I’ve written you a trilogy.”
“A trilogy? For me? I am undeserving, my love. Alas, I’m not a rising author. My words are drivel compared to yours. A chore to listen to.”
Fervently, she shakes her head. “No, never. Your words are angelic blessings, bestowed upon the ears of all who hear them. Do not scorn our twinship like this and suggest we can be compared in any way but equal parts.”
“How foolish of me. You are correct of course. Our perfect, united, identical nature shines brilliantly in all things. Even our writing skill.”
“Yes, naturally. In all things, except our taste for artichokes,our single attempt at uniqueness, and thy single folly.”
I cannot stand artichokes, but for this, I forgive myself.
My attention skates once more toward Kaleb, whose amused smile touches a chord in my heart. Right about now, I bet he’s thinking we’re like Snow-white and Rose-red—inseparable and fairytale.
