Page 13 of Marrying the Gardener
I scoff. They sure do. “I already appreciate your dedication, Kaleb. Rest assured the thought you’re putting into this is not going unnoticed.”
Bracing an elbow against the door armrest, he grazes his thumb over his bottom lip and watches the quaint shops of downtown Sunset roll by. “I don’t think anyone should be controlled by anyone else, not like how you’ve been. If this is how you’re securing freedom from your family, I am more than happy to help.”
Hm. These words of his carry an undertone of conviction. I did suspect Kaleb had more skin in this game than he let on, assuming he’s smart enough to know that burning his escort career for a chance to bed a Nightingale makes absolutely no sense. I never would have expected his convictions to be so rooted in a concept as innocent ashelping someone obtain theirfreedom, though. All things considered, he is not discreet when he looks at me, and I’m a little concerned how much passion will saturate the first time he touches me.
“We should probably practice intimacy boundaries in a controlled environment so I don’t freak out and hit you for going too far when I’m supposed to be idiotically in love with you,” I say.
His eyes cut my way, then drift back off out the window. “And pregnant.”
I swallow. Right. Yes. Andpregnant. Nothing—absolutely nothing—that happens in front of anyone is something that I should not be fully comfortable with considering that I am, according to the script,pregnantwith his child.
As the long drive leading up to my lavish manor manifests, I ask, “What’s your plan for today?”
“My plan?”
“We don’t have time right now to practice anything, but I’m bringing my husband home. How do you react to it all? What do I mentally need to prepare for?”
He eyes me, and I’m convinced he knows as little about bringing a spouse home as I do until he says, “It’s the first day of our marriage.”
“Yes?”
“I’m carrying you over the threshold while you giggle and stare adoringly at me. We’ll kiss. I’ll take you directly to your bedroom.”
Heat swells, blistering my body. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, Kaleb, and Idon’tgiggle.”
“For me you do.”
My nose wrinkles, but he continues before I get the chance to vomit. “I’m a self-obsessed—” he cusses, “—who just succeeded in what has been a multi-year plot to have it all—the money, the trophy wife, the status. I’m going to enjoy it. To the fullest. And,afterward, I’ll peruse everything I’ve earned while thinking so highly of myself it’s sickening. You’ll be flushed, in a bathrobe, and pouring me wine or champagne as you seek to earn my favor, which as of late has seemed somehow harder to obtain. You’re you, but on the edge of desperate to regain what is feeling lost. I’m…” His eyes close, and I expect him to smile, but all he does is sigh. “…man.”
My grip tightens on the wheel.
“Does that sound doable and correct for you today, Crimson?”
It doesn’t soundincorrect, as far as I understand. After we get back, immediately isolating me in my bedroom under a pretense of intimacy will also give us some time to practice. My staff will be beyond confused and concerned, but not even Ava, my head housekeeper and the woman who raised me, would dare to interrupt.
As home comes into view, I press the button that opens my garage door, then I slip my red sports car into the cool bay protected from the July sun. Once the engine cuts, I release a breath and rally myself for the next steps of this first scene.
“You’re sure you can carry me?” I ask. “I’m not a small woman.”
“I’m sure. I’m not exactly a small man, either.”
I glance at him—the girth of his chest and the broadness of his shoulders straining his dress shirt. He is, when we’re standing, half a foot taller than me at least, and it’s more than clear what yardwork has done to his physique.
Despite this, tension riots in my limbs, making me stiff.
Popping his door open, Kaleb circles the hood of my car, opens mine, and offers me his hand like a prince. “Smile, Crimson,” he says, coolly. “It makes you look prettier…and as though you might actually be on the brink of tolerating me.”
Some small bit of tension escapes my chest. “Classic,” Imutter, sardonically amused when I smile, which isn’t exactly the goal, so I try again, opting for love, opting for…whatever I look like when I’m with Crisis.
Yes.
That’s love.
That’s real, truelove.
This time when I smile, I feel it in my heart and my soul as I picture my dearest friend and the only person in the world who knows me without any pretenses. Kaleb is Crisis. I just need to pretend that Kaleb is Crisis. I amnotwith an escort whose motives are foggy at best; I am with a woman who eats spite for breakfast and would kill for her pet fish, Potato.
When I step out under that delusion of adoration, Kaleb curses, so I lose some of the illusion. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Please tell me I don’t look constipated.” I’ve never beenin lovebefore. This is truly the best I can do here.
