Page 12 of Marrying the Gardener (The Bachelor Brothers #3)

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Raise your butter knife if you think murder’s the answer.

Crimson

Women are better seen, not heard.

Don’t take up space.

Don’t cause a scene.

Don’t be emotional.

Oh, but do handle all the emotional things for me.

Great. Glad I don’t have to worry about them anymore, unless I want to, and I never want to, because I have better things to do, like drinking and complaining about the stock market.

Also, ignore the fact I’m far more emotional literally all the time .

My big, strong, male emotions aren’t feminine and weak like yours.

My superior emotions are rage, frustration, and disgust…

and they certainly don’t make me do stupid woman things like cry.

No.

They just make me hit things, and yell, and throw tantrums like a big, giant, stupid baby .

In normal, loving families, I’m pretty sure fathers prefer it when their daughters aren’t treated like objects. In mine, my father visibly relaxed when Kaleb snapped his fingers and told me, not any of the maids lingering around the long acacia dining table, to refill his liquor glass.

I don’t know how he won my father’s interest over so quickly. I don’t know how he actually knows anything about money when he hasn’t really been working in finance. But here he is, discussing stocks like he watches the market avidly, and my father has raised his brows out of respect at least twice.

Which is exactly two more times than I have ever obtained in my entire life.

Moments after we arrived, Kaleb pulled zero punches.

Before my father could open his mouth, Kaleb had stroked his ego and simultaneously challenged him.

In two minutes, Kaleb made it seem like he married me to meet my father, because he holds Jared Nightingale in such high regard all he wants out of life is to make him more money.

Now, we’re an hour into the meal, and—by my estimates—they’re about two whiskey tumblers away from scrapbooking, painting each other’s nails, and becoming best friends forever.

All while I sit here.

And do nothing .

Invested, my father sips his whiskey. “Intriguing takes on the current bear market. My broker’s been advising that I hold for an upward swing, but you’re suggesting I diversify?”

Casual, Kaleb runs his finger along the rim of his tumbler and says, “Tech stocks are leading on most indexes lately. Take NASDAQ, for instance. Have you seen the spikes on apps like DUOL?” Kaleb, ever the kind and attentive husband, casts a look my way, removes his hand from his own whiskey glass, and pats my thigh.

“Duolingo, baby. Isn’t that funny? The psychotic bird is making bank.

” His hand lingers on my thigh, stroking uncomfortably high, and my father’s eyes track the motion with an amusement that makes me want to throw up—or cry.

Good , I can read in his eyes. Someone else to handle this brat. An ally to keep her under control, so I don’t have to deal with her while she still does what she’s supposed to for me.

Ever the obedient, useless daughter without a brain, I knit my brows and blink idiotically. “Duolingo? What does Duolingo have to do with Daddy’s business stuff?”

Kaleb chuckles, arrogant, and kisses my cheek.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.

” He returns his attention to my father.

“Anyway, DUOL has been on a rising trend for the past six months, with steady growth in the past half decade. Yet, this month, it’s been dropping.

Perfect time to buy shares. After all, having a few growth stocks with a long-term horizon never hurts in increasing your profit margin. ”

Wow, look at all those fancy buzz words Kaleb memorized to make himself sound smart.

I think I’ve decided. I don’t want to throw up or cry; I want to send my butter knife through my father’s forehead then laugh over his corpse.

Investing in stocks isn’t rocket science. You buy, you sell, you hold. You watch the market for trends. You make educated guesses. You hire people to watch the market and make those guesses for you. It’s one big money game. All business is.

And I have wanted to play for my entire life…but I’ve never been allowed because my anatomy said ha ha ha, you’re a girl .

Around the time even the sun has had enough of this conversation, Kaleb pushes back from the table and offers my father his hand.

“Sir, it has been an honor, a privilege, and a personal dream of mine to meet you like this. I’ve learned so much, and I hope I might be so bold as to ask that you might take me under your wing going forward.

I would like nothing more than to follow in your footsteps. ”

My father rises to grip his hand and smiles around his trim red beard. “Indeed it has been more of a pleasure than I suspected. If I had to get a son so late, I’m glad he’s like you.”

“Consider me most flattered, sir. It pains me to leave so early, but you must understand I have to get Crimson home before she gets cranky. All this business talk must have been exhausting for her, and women aren’t half so tolerable to be around when they’re tired, or hungry, or ovulating…

but we don’t have to worry about that for a few months, now do we?

” Kaleb’s brows pucker above a placating smile when he casts a glance back at me and shakes his head.

“I just have to deal with the morning sickness, and cravings, and mood swings, and…”

Barking a laugh, my father claps a hand to Kaleb’s back. “For your sake, I hope the kid’s a boy.” He looks at me, and his mirth vanishes as he takes on a clinical tone. “When will you know?”

My lips part, but I…have no idea. Setting a hand on my stomach, I rack my brain for information. A friend who’s had a baby. Instinct. Unfortunately, I have zero maternal instinct, the only friend I’d remember details about a baby rant from is Crisis, and—

“Second trimester,” Kaleb says. “It’ll be months yet, but—trust me—I’m counting down the days.

” Regaining his hand from my father, he makes a flippant motion.

“Don’t ask Crimson any questions about anything while she’s nurturing pregnancy brain .

She’s practically only good for one thing these days.

” While my heart pinches, Kaleb flicks his finger at me. “Come on, Crimson. Up.”

Relying on obedient muscle memory, I stand, accept being pulled against him, accept my place under his arm, as his trophy. Rage, anguish, and pain burn beneath my calm, gentle facade, but I maintain it. Thanks to decades of experience.

“I’m glad you didn’t disappoint me today, Crimson,” my father murmurs, smug, as though my decision to get married was thanks to his good parenting. “Do try to raise some decent heirs and keep from dying before you get the chance like your mother did, will you?”

My lips part, but I can’t find the I’ll do my best, Daddy . I can’t stomach prompting him to respond and imply that my paltry best will have to be good enough. After a night of feeling worthless and too dumb to speak, now I can’t.

Unbidden and unwelcome, a silent tear slips down my cheek.

Kaleb catches it and sighs—as though he, too, is done with me. “ Hormones . Say goodnight to your father, Crimson.”

Buying into the grand excuse of hormones , I whisper a broken, “Night night, Daddy.”

My father either doesn’t see fit to reply, or Kaleb whisks me away to my car before he can. I, personally, can’t find it in myself to care.

I care so little, I don’t know why Kaleb pulls over once we’ve left the grounds of my father’s estate. Threading his fingers into his hair, he leans against the wheel and exhales a curse. Streetlights catch the ripples of concern in his eyes when he glances at me.

I feel like a husk of a person.

An empty cavern. A doll.

Worthless .

I say, “I’m fine,” before he can speak. “That was…perfect.” I stuff down a breath, look out my window, wave ahead. “Go on. Get us home before I get…cranky.”

“Crimson.”

“Go.”

“Crimson,” he says, softer, letting a hand land on my thigh.

I look down at it, remembering the way it felt in front of my father, when the action dripped with condescension and possession. Right now…it’s light. Emanating care. I lift my attention to Kaleb’s face. “What?”

“I was drinking, Rose-red. I shouldn’t be driving right now.

The chance my reaction time is impaired by even a fraction of a second is a risk I’m not taking with you in the car.

” He opens his door, circles to mine, and offers his hand to help me out.

Once I’m standing, though, he lingers, pressed close, sandwiching me to the sparkling red paint.

His forehead falls against mine, and whiskey wafts from his breath. “Are you good?”

“I said—”

He brushes his thumb beneath my eye. “I know. You’re fine . But you were crying, and we both know you aren’t dealing with pregnancy brain. What he said about your mother…”

“You know she died giving birth to me. I never knew her. It’s fine .”

“You cried.”

“People have hormones even when they aren’t pregnant, Kaleb.”

“Crimson.” His voice hardens. “I need you to talk to me, sweetheart. I can’t do this if it’s going to hurt you like this.

I can’t stomach that. Please . Don’t ask me to stomach that.

” Pain contorts his face, leaving an emotion quite near misery rioting in his glazed eyes.

When he closes them, he drops his forehead to my shoulder and circles me in his arms. Care, as apparent as his touch moments ago in the car, siphons through his strong embrace and into me. “Did I go too far?”