Page 11 of Marrying the Gardener (The Bachelor Brothers #3)

?

It’s hard being a wife; I don’t know how Crisis does it.

Crimson

Ava seems to be doing better this morning? I think. As far as I can tell, she seems almost…chipper.

Does this mean she’s not mad anymore?

Has she decided to trust that I wouldn’t marry someone unless I really, truly, love them? Has she decided that if I love Kaleb, I deserve mercy for my ignorance in perpetuating a cycle of abuse? After all, statistically, this was always going to be my destiny.

Humans fall for whatever’s familiar.

It’s just psychology.

Sipping my morning tea at the kitchen table, I wait for Adelhilde to finish making our breakfast.

Kaleb, channeling wife beater from the 1950s, flips through a newspaper that he—apparently—asked Ava to get for him earlier, and she—apparently—did.

“Viktor Bachelor is still topping the USA Today charts with his latest release,” Kaleb murmurs.

I brighten. “Really? That’s amazing. It’s the second week, isn’t it?”

“I believe so. He’s a good author.” Kaleb’s eyes find me above the paper and heat as he smiles.

I can’t help but think he’s missing a pipe and a tank top, even though I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be blushing and thinking that my husband is perfect just the way he is.

Not being able to force a blush might be my downfall since it certainly steals the realism from my love story.

As it stands, Charlotte isn’t supposed to be head-over-heels for the man, yet I don’t think she’s stopped blushing for even a second since she first laid eyes on him in all his topless glory yesterday.

When she brings our food to the table, I want to steal the red from her pale cheeks, but I settle for picking up my fork instead. “Looks delicious. Thank you, Char, Adel.”

Precious, Charlotte beams, folds her hands before her apron, and asks, “Do you need anything else, Mrs. Nightingale?”

“Not right now. I appreciate you.”

Joy fills her until she remembers this isn’t a normal morning. Her sunshine dims as she flicks her gaze toward Kaleb. Taking a breath, she says, “A-and you, sir? Can I get you anything else?”

Kaleb doesn’t spare her a glance as he taps a finger to his half-full coffee cup and turns the page in his newspaper.

I bite my tongue to avoid snapping use your words at him. This is mild behavior, and I know that. I know that because I’ve experienced far worse than pretentiousness and self-importance. This is fine. I’m just on edge because my people deserve better than fine .

Lifting my tea cup, I sip and transport myself mentally to Brew Tea, Crisis’s and my favorite tea shop in Sunset.

While there, surrounded by idle chatter and across from my dear twin’s infectious smile, I review my tasks for the day.

After breakfast, I’ll continue my routine.

I’ll play with General for a bit. I’ll check my schedule.

I’ll make my important calls. I’ll respond to any important missives.

I’ll order that present for my father’s top shareholder’s wife…

It’s her birthday next week, and she’s turning fifty, so it has to be something more thoughtful than flowers since the goal is to come off as a little more personal than a dentist office sending an automatic Happy Birthday email. Hm. I’ll dwell on that later.

Where personal matters today are concerned, I have to do something about the scent of Kaleb’s skin on my comforter. All last night, it haunted me, and I will not be spending another evening with it, thank you very much.

“Ava,” I say, broaching.

The woman turns, smiling at me as though everything is…fine? Maybe everything is fine now. Maybe she’s decided to take a different angle in this situation. Anything is better than her disappointment. “Yes, Mrs. Nightingale?”

Mrs.

I swallow and force a smile. “Could you have my bedding washed today?”

Her smile falters as her brows lift, and she cuts a look at Kaleb, who chuckles suggestively and turns another page in his stupid paper.

I blink at them, then at Charlotte, whose face manages miraculously to deepen in hue. Tense, she fumbles the coffee pot she’s holding, splashing hot liquid across the table. Color drains from her cheeks. “S-sorry. I’m so sorry. I…I’ll clean it up right away, Mr. Nightingale.”

My stomach twists as the perfect opportunity to be a Class A donkey presents itself. If Kaleb starts yelling at Charlotte, I am not going to be okay.

She’s frail, younger than me, and just trying to get by after tragedy took her parents, leaving her orphaned as a teenager—old enough to miss precious memories, too young to get by alone.

She deserves nothing but safety. Nothing but kindness. Nothing but—

My heart drops when Kaleb moves, and I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood.

Folding his paper, he sets it aside and…lifts his cup so Charlotte can wipe the table under it. “It’s all right,” he murmurs, gentle. “Accidents happen.”

Her eyes hit him, and her rigid body stills.

Sweet as an angel, he breaks out a tenderness I know had to serve him well in escorting. Warm cannot define his current expression. It’s radiant. So radiant, it puts Charlotte in a daze that doesn’t break until he goes back to his insipid paper.

Once she’s managed to invent another shade of red, clean up, and get him a new cup of coffee, he hums dangerously.

My entire being tenses.

“I believe,” he turns a page, “we were talking about dirty bedding ?” His eyes meet mine above the pale gray paper.

Ah.

Well.

When he puts it like that , I am thinking I should have sucked up existing with the faint, earthy scent of his cologne until the usual washday.

Ha, ha, ha…shoot me.

Doing my very best not to twitch, I beam an, Is this attitude completely necessary? across the table with my eyes.

Cool and collected, Kaleb’s eyes respond, Yes .

It’s a miracle I maintain composure.

And it’s a blessing when Ava lays a hand on my shoulder to say, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it, Mrs. Nightingale.”

Warmth soaks into my skin, settling my rampant heartbeat, so I whisper, “Thank you,” and dwell on the heat until it’s gone.

?

“What’s wrong?” Crisis’s frantic tone hits my ear as I pet General on the head, take the ball from his mouth, and send it soaring across my lush backyard.

Classic Crisis. I knew I shouldn’t have called like this.

I just don’t yet trust Kaleb alone in my home, so I can’t exactly slip away to see her in between my other scheduled tasks for the day, but I really needed to hear her voice.

“Whatever do you mean, dearness?” I ask, by no means gaslighting her.

“You called. Directly. No text. No warning. During my working hours, which you have printed off and laminated as a color-coded Canva Whiteboard in your desk.” She gasps. “You must have lost my schedule! Due to hatred !”

As if I could ever, ever, in a million years hate my beloved wife. “Hi, Viktor,” I say.

“No, no,” Crisis snaps. “Don’t talk to him. You’re talking to me . You called me . Oof .”

In the background, Viktor swears.

Crisis growls, “Get away from me. I’m having quality time with my husband .”

“Are you all right, dearness?” I ask.

She huffs. “I’m fine. The wheel on my chair just broke.” She sniffs. “Well, I should say I’m physically fine. My heart, though? It breaks, because you did not catch me. Hatred confirmed. What have I left to live for?”

I let my lower lip pout as I retrieve General’s ball again, trying to throw it even farther this time. “Forgive me, my love. I tried to teleport, but could not.”

“Because you hate me?”

“No, never.”

“You still haven’t told me what’s wrong.”

Everything. “Nothing’s wrong. I just miss you.”

“Then I’ll be over in two minutes. Viktor, quit babying me. It’s just a bruise. Survive on your own now. My twin, who is canonically more twin with me than Maelin and Morana are twin with each other, needs me.”

For starters, I live fifteen minutes away from the Bachelors. Also…

Turning toward the sliding glass doors, I locate Kaleb, still seated inside at the kitchen table, watching me while he pretends to read his paper.

Crisis knows Kaleb because Kaleb tended to the Bachelors’ expansive koi pond, and while she did not see fit to mention his name at a frequency whereby it stuck in my memory, she sure did mention those fish.

According to the script, Kaleb worked in finance at one of the offices here in downtown Sunset.

Crisis knows that’s not true. And she would absolutely ask him about the fish the second they meet if she comes here.

If at all possible, I’d prefer not to have those stories collide until after my grandfather’s dead and Kaleb’s name is in the will. “Dearness, no.”

“You don’t need me?”

“Of course I need you,” I murmur, holding Kaleb’s unflinching gaze. “I just can’t see you today.”

“Why not?”

“Situations have deemed it impossible. Fate decrees that our hearts are destined to yearn. But how are you? Have you changed anything on your wedding planning Canva Whiteboard recently?”

“Only every three minutes, which you can stalk, because I shared it with you. Please tell me what’s wrong. Don’t we tell each other everything?”

If I told her about this, she wouldn’t stop until she’d fixed it.

But I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to pay back the startup loan I’d need to get anything off the ground.

I can’t live indebted to the Bachelors. I want my due, which would have been mine anyway if I’d just not had the gall to be born as a woman.

“Please, Crim. I’m here for you,” Crisis says.

My chest tightens. “I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can. Okay?” General comes back, drops his ball, and barks, so I turn away from Kaleb to throw it again. “There’s just a lot going on with my family stuff right now.”

“You know you can rely on me, too, Crim. It doesn’t always have to be you saving me from crisis. I am yours to deposit in the castles of your enemies. I’ll take a stroll. Their pipes will burst. Their chair wheels will break. Their walls will crumble in my wake. And then we’ll go get boba.”

I laugh. “We’ll see.” If only that were the solution…

Maybe I’ll take her with me to the hospital once my grandfather’s on life support, just to speed up the process a bit.

And…I’m already contemplating murder.

I haven’t seen my grandfather for several years. He could have changed. I doubt it. But impending doom does have a character-building nature to it, usually, I think.

Right now, I’m waiting on a call from my father demanding I explain myself, bring my husband before him, and allow the men to chat.

If I know my father, after I called yesterday, he concocted a grand scheme in his brain that goes something like: pay peasant man to go away, hit daughter, send daughter to get abortion—or make sure she miscarries if she refuses.

With how many times I’ve been kicked in the stomach after that man has sent me to the ground, I doubt it makes a difference to him. Heck. He’d probably prefer to save the money.

Even though I know I’m not pregnant, my fingers still find their way to my midsection as memories I wish I didn’t have play in the back of my mind.

I need to be free. Soon.

I need the independence that has been stolen from me.

I need…

Against my ear, in the middle of Crisis regaling me with tales of how it’s us against the world, my phone begins to vibrate. I swallow and pull it away to stare at the Jared Nightingale calling plastered across my screen. “Cris?”

She pauses her narration. “Yes, my dearest darlingest love?”

I free a breath. “I’m getting another call, but I’ll connect with you again soon. Okay?”

Soft seconds of silence spill over the vibration in my hand, then Crisis says, “Okay. I love you. So much.”

“I love you, too.” I end our call to take my father’s, and bring out a hesitant, fragile, little woman’s, “Yes, Daddy?”

Predictably, he says, “I want to meet him.”

As my lips curl, wicked, I lilt, “Oh, Daddy! I knew you’d come around!”

“Tonight. Five. Don’t keep me waiting.”

The line dies, and I clench my fist around my phone as General returns with his ball. Petting his soft black head, I mutter, “Don’t worry, Daddy . I would never.”