Page 36

Evie

I wake up to an overturned living room and the smell of bacon frying. The reason for the overturned living room is all me. Someone with superhuman strength dragged the other rectangular couch to join with the original couch I slept on. The result is that I have a cozy living room corner all to myself. This way, I will never fall off the couch.

I throw the extra covers over my head, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep, but nature calls. And coffee. I jump out of my nook and into the welcome sight of Wild humming under his breath as he makes breakfast.

Wild is no singer, but listening to him bob his head out of tune is so cute. He has no business being endearing on top of everything else that he is.

In danger of embarrassing myself spectacularly, I hurry to obey nature.

I return from the bathroom refreshed and eager to enjoy breakfast. I'm not thinking about kissing Wild or the stunned look on his face when he saw the ice bath. I'm just my usual self.

And that's why I give Wild a shy wave. "Hi, um, good morning."

His gaze lingers on my hair, and I don't know why. "Hi and good morning."

I wrap my hands around the steaming coffee as Wild sets down a plate of eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, and potatoes.

“Thanks.”

It feels like a date. I don't blame the super breakfast. I blame the simmering, underground tension.

I peek at Wild, and he drops his spoon, features flooding with color. He disappears behind the counter. And he takes forever. I'm about to offer my help when his head reappears.

He doesn't meet my eyes. And when he does, it's a quick peek, then he mutters, "Sorry."

My lips twitch. Wild's nervous. "You're nervous,"I say.

He grunts, directing all his focus toward positioning his coffee mug at a precise angle.

"No." He rubs his right hand with his left. "I might have sprained a muscle."

"In that hand?"

"Yeah?"

"The same hand you used to score the game winner?"

He glares at me, and I raise my mug to hide my grin. It wouldn't do to offend the man giving me breakfast.

Wild carries his food out to the patio.

When I'm ready to leave, I go out to find him. Pausing by the glass doors, I watch him fiddle with his phone with a very healthy hand. “I see your hand is healthy."

He rises and comes to me. This close, I'm reminded of his size and strength and my undeniable attraction to him. He turns me to face our reflection on the glass door and drops his head onto my shoulder. I look at our reflection, and my breath shortens.

"Wild."

"You smell good,"he says.

His hands grip my waist, and I start babbling. "Thanks for breakfast."The longer he stays quiet, the faster my mouth moves. "And, uh, we're on date five. I'm not going to ask what your plans are."I laugh.

But Wild doesn't laugh with me. His eyes go so dark, they may as well be black. Or tortured. Or pained. I blink up at his reflection. "Y-y-you don't want date five?"

He closes his eyes and groans. Definitely tortured.

He doesn't want date five?

A muscle leaps across his jaw, and his hands around my waist spasm. "Are you counting down to the end?"

"No,"I answer truthfully because I'm having so much fun, I don't want us to end.

His expression clears, and his eyes become intent. "I want more than seven dates,"he says with a thread of caution tying each word.

My hard swallow sounds like a door jammed shut. But I'm too busy swimming in the depths of his blue eyes to be embarrassed. "Okay."

It comes out sounding like a question. I lick my lips to try again. Wild turns me around, his hands coming up to cradle my face as he studies me closely. "Okay?"

I nod. "Okay."

"You're sure?"His words spew out so fast they run over each other. "Because I want you by my side forever. You know what that means, don't you?"

There's pressure in my chest, but I nod past it. "Yes."

And he hurls me into his arms. I can hear his heart thudding against my cheek. I think I hear a thank you murmured into my hair. And another. He rolls his face all over my hair, muttering indecipherable words.

I don't move as my eyes fill with tears. I've never had anyone be so happy at the prospect of having me at their side.

After fighting all my life to earn my place with my family, I can't believe I've found the one person I don't have to impress into accepting me. And I believe he wants me because he sounds so relieved.

He's ecstatic.

He's been bothered by this; I realize with growing disbelief. Like really, really bothered.

Sucking back tears, I curl my arms around him and hold on tightly.

◆◆◆

I've been keeping a secret from Wild. And no, it's not the deal-breaker kind of secret.

His precious garden has become a neighborhood project. You see, no amount of library time can beat experience. As soon as I mentioned my gardening problem to Mrs. Izaacs—without letting her in on the fantasy part, of course—she gathered the 'experts ’ , and they went to work.

Wild thinks of the garden as his, but he's been so busy lately, and from his lack of progress, I'm beginning to suspect he doesn't have a green thumb.

Is it cheating if I'm doing it? It ’ s my garden.

I'm knee and hands deep in manure when Jackie starts barking. Even without a mirror, I know I'm a mess. Wrinkling my nose at the smell, I pull off my gloves, praying it's one of my neighbors at the door.

But they would have known to check the backyard first.

Then Jackie comes running back to me. "Who is it?"

"It would be ridiculous announcing myself,"Mrs. Langford says imperiously, picking her way into my backyard. "What's that smell?"

My gloves drop from my hand.

Mrs. Langford stands still with her hands pressed to the expensive necklace at her throat as if my struggling seed plants are about to pull it from her neck. She has her nose and chin in the air. Her blonde hair is in a tight chignon, and her pink suit emphasizes the graceful lines of her body. She's not a tall woman, but her regal bearing gives the impression she's looking down on you.

"What are you doing here?"I ask in a way I would never have dared before.

"What are you doing in here?"She returns with such genuine perplexity that I know she's not trolling.

Mrs. Langford doesn't troll. She interrogates.

"It's my house,"I remind us both.

For the first time, I'm not anxious to please her, and I don't care that she disapproves of my attire and gardening.

"If you're short of money." A gloved hand disappears into her handbag, and out comes her phone. "You should have told me--"

"My fiancé is a millionaire,"I tell her without a boastful air. It's not like it's my money or like we're real fiancés. Fake fiancés who are real dating. So complicated.

“Oh."She frowns. "Then why are you doing this?"

"It's for Wild,"I admit, my mouth curving in a smile.

"But it's your house."

I shrug. Then, I remember my manners. "Do you want something to drink—"

"No!"She exclaims, forgetting the laws of proper behavior she likes to live by.

Even actual royalty will quake in the face of manure. I guess. "You know I will give my hand a thorough washing before I serve you anything?"

"I don't care."

"What do you want then?"

"I wanted to see you,"she says, the foreign-sounding words all casual, like it's normal for her to come to see me. Or want to see me.

A horrible thought strikes me. "Did Father die?"

"No."

"You have cancer!"

"No."

What else can it be? "My mother came to see you?"

She doesn't bother dignifying my question with an answer.

"Sarah,"I whisper. "She's the one dying, isn't she?"

"You're still ridiculous,"Mrs. Langford says in a tone I would have described as fond if I wasn't fully awake and reeking of manure.

"We're both getting divorced and joining a one-year cruise."She folds her gloved hand in a demure move. "It's a double divorce,"she tells me primly, making it sound like a double cause for celebration.

Something like: Oh, you know my son just graduated Harvard, and my daughter is getting married into a prestigious family whose wealth can be traced back to the Middle Ages.

"I thought you should know."

Too much time outdoors must have messed with my brain, but I'm not getting it. "You're getting divorced?"

"Yes."

"From Father?"

"Do I have another husband?"

"No."

We stare at each other. Mrs. Langford does a small pirouette, taking everything in. When she's done, she doesn't look impressed. But I know her. She's too naturally thorough not to have a report of my home in her desk drawer. I can bet my costly fake engagement ring she knows my house more than I do.

Then why the studied look around? She's—no, she can't be nervous.

"You're serious about the cruise?"

Her expression shifts until I become a cockroach she's about to crush under her heel.

"I'm leaving,"she says without moving.

I'm too stunned to speak.

"Why did you ask if your mother came to see me?"Her eyes narrow. "Did she come here?"

Absently, I start to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

"You know there's this bonnet thing women wear to work on their gardens, don't you?"

My hand freezes at the old tone, but I shake it off. "I will get one,"I say.

"Your mother?"

"Her daughter came here to meet me."

"Oh,"she says. Then, "You look happy with Mr. Carrington."

I feel my lips curve at her calling Wild Mr. Carrington. "Very,"I admit.

She nods. "One last thing: Shonda is a terrible woman.”

I gape. Mrs. Langford just called my mother by her name.

The seconds tick by as she doesn't take her eyes off me.

“ She never deserved you.”

A long pause. "I'm not some prize,"I croak.

"You are a prize,"she says clearly, each syllable ringing like an auctionannouncer."You're a prize neither your mother, me, nor your father deserved."Then her back snaps straighter than it already is. “I apologize…for Sarah. That’s my failure as a mother. But Parker was your doing, not mine."Her gaze holds mine. "You're a prize. Remember that."

I don't move long after she leaves.

Mrs. Langford is divorcing her husband, my father, to go on a cruise, not caring what her country club fans will think? And she just called me a prize. Double wow.