Page 30 of Marrying the Gardener (The Bachelor Brothers #3)

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Ice cream solves all the world’s problems.

Crimson

“You seem rather dazed lately,” Ava suggests while I’m—apparently—sitting in the kitchen, eating chocolate ice cream directly out of the cartoon with a soup spoon.

Blinking at the circular silver stuck in the pint I’m almost certain was full just minutes ago, I say, “Oh?”

“Pregnancy,” she offers, “can change a woman.”

I forgot I was pregnant. Am I allowed to have a pint of ice cream while I’m pregnant? I know I’m not supposed to have caffeine, which explains why I’ve been having herbal teas with my breakfast…but…how much caffeine is in chocolate, anyway? It’s not like the caffeine content is listed on this.

Right?

I turn to the ingredients.

“Is everything all right with your husband?” she asks, and a bolt of heat zips down my spine.

Ignoring the ingredients, I stuff another spoonful in my mouth. “Yes, of course. Why?”

“You seem to have been avoiding him during the past week.”

My stomach tightens. “That’s…nothing. Over now.” I eat another bite, hoping there’s another whole carton in the freezer. “Yup. Don’t worry about it.”

“Did something happen?”

Did something happen? Yes. Something did happen.

I have come to feel a closeness of spirit with a man who entices me toward the sharing of germs. However, as far as you may know at this juncture, the germs have been well and fully shared to such an extent that I am even presently growing a little germ parasite in my gut.

I hate this ruse. I swear, if my father or grandfather do not stop by before everything is said and done, I am going to be peeved.

Or, then again…maybe I won’t be. Precautions are good to take, but I won’t exactly be upset if my girls never come into contact with the men in my family. Nobody needs that.

Nobody needs men, period.

Bah.

I eat another spoonful of ice cream.

“Crimson?” Ava murmurs, making me tense.

She doesn’t use my given name unless something’s wrong. Even when I was a child, I was always Ms. Nightingale .

Cautious, I lift my attention to her, find severity in her deep blue eyes as she wipes her hands on her apron and steps away from the kitchen sink. “You’d tell me if something were wrong, wouldn’t you?”

“Wrong?” I ask, voice thin. “Wrong like how?”

“Is Kaleb mistreating you?”

I freeze with my next spoonful of ice cream an inch from my lips. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re sure?” she presses. “He’s not being too rough, is he?”

The man has literal wounds where I’ve sunk my nails into him. If anyone’s being rough , it’s me. Averting my eyes, I stuff the spoonful in my mouth. “Kaleb is very gentle.” I remember the plot. “In a sexy, assertive way.” What am I saying? Why is this the plot?

Deadpan, Ava repeats, “In a…sexy, assertive…way? What does that mean?”

How am I supposed to know? I’d very much like to exit this conversation now. “The point is, no, he’s not mistreating me.” I’m a lass in love. Abuse isn’t real. And I’m red-green color blind.

The fact I stiffen when Kaleb himself appears at the entry to the kitchen—gripping the archway and eyeing me like a predator—is surely unrelated.

Smirking like a scumbag, he saunters to me, tips up my chin, and steals my last bite of ice cream.

“Baby,” he murmurs, “did you eat that entire thing all by yourself?”

I look down and discover I have indeed. “It would…seem so.”

Rounding my seat, he braces his hands at my shoulders and kneads, tutting, “You can’t let yourself go just because you’ll have an excuse for gaining weight soon, Crimson.” Lowering his mouth to my ear, he whispers, “Everything okay, Rose-red?”

I mean. Everything was okay, before you decided to bulldoze my everything’s fine conversation with the most classic and overrated red flag of all time.

While Ava glares Kaleb down, Adelhilde enters the kitchen to begin her evening prep for dinner, and I relish the distraction. “Evening, miss! Evening…sir.” Providing Kaleb with a curt nod, she begins gathering ingredients from the fridge.

“Adelhilde,” Kaleb says, still kneading my shoulders, “what’s for dinner?”

“Fettuccine alfredo with broccoli and chicken, sir. A favorite of Mrs. Nightingale’s.”

“Carbs and cheese,” he muses, eyeing me, and I’d be more annoyed—probably—if this massage weren’t so amazing. “How’s a grilled chicken salad sound instead, Crimson? Lean meat would be better for the baby.”

Is that a fact?

I’m not sure I saw that in my cursory research of what’s it like to be pregnant . But, then again, it was extremely cursory, that research, and up until twelve seconds ago I did fully forget that I was pregnant, so who knows?

Before I can fetch an answer from my foggy brain, Adelhilde’s brows hike up, and she points her frying pan at Kaleb. “I can make you a grilled chicken salad, sir. Ma’am’s gonna have her alfredo, and you ain’t gonna say another word about it.”

Kaleb’s grip on my shoulders hardens before slipping free. “I’m thinking of my child, Adelhilde. I want him to be healthy.”

“Him? Since when do we know the babe’s gender? She ain’t even showin’ yet.”

“I don’t need this disrespect in my own home.”

“Then I ’spose you don’t need dinner either, sir .”

Kaleb, mock furious, turns to me, opens his mouth, and—

Adelhilde snaps, “I know you ain’t about to stress an expecting mother with your nonsense.”

Growling—hotly—Kaleb throws up his hands. “I don’t have to deal with this. Enjoy dinner.” Then he marches from the room.

Like a toddler drama king.

In my brain, the curtains close, and he takes a bow.

In reality, I just told Ava everything was totally fine, but now I have to have dinner all by myself.

And—I hate to say it but—I like having Kaleb around.

Even when he’s not being completely himself.

Sometimes, the real him slips out into the nonsense, and it’s like seeing the sun cast a rainbow from the clouds.

I fully understand why people stay in abusive relationships if it is anything similar. You stick around, simply desperate to see a flickering of refracted light from the people you love.

I mean, heck…how many years of my childhood did I hold out, waiting for my father to show me even a scrap of something kind? Delusion and hope are lovers, and they have no shame being affectionate in public.

Adelhilde tuts, setting her frying pan down hard on the stove. “I do not like that man one infuriating bit.” She huffs, glances toward me, and bites her lip. “Sorry, Ms. Nightingale. He’s just… He ain’t near good enough for you.”

Wishing I had another pint of ice cream, I say, “He’s just had a bad day.”

“A bad day? Doing what? Lounging about? Forcing himself on you in the halls while you’ve been trying to work?”

Ava interjects, “Now, Adelhilde, if Mrs. Nightingale says her husband’s having a bad day, the graceful thing to do is accept that.”

Adelhilde clicks her tongue, turning her back on us as she faces the stove. “I jus’ hate to see the cycles repeatin’ is all.”

That makes me wince because this cycle absolutely isn’t repeating. When I’m free of my family, I can’t wait for them to meet the real Kaleb. I just hope they understand why I took precautions against including too many people in the scheme.

Rising from my seat, I dump my empty ice cream carton in the trash. “I’ll go make sure he’s okay…maybe see if I can change his mind about dinner.”

Adelhilde grunts, so I exit, heading toward the stairs. Once I reach the top, Kaleb’s low, gentle voice drifts toward me, “Easy…”

“P-please, sir,” Charlotte squeaks. “You can’t—”

“Upsy-daisy,” Kaleb murmurs as I turn the corner and find Charlotte in his arms.

My mouth drops open.

“M-M-Mrs. Nightingale.” Charlotte’s eyes water. “It’s not what it looks like!”

It’s not what it looks like? What does she mean it’s not what it looks like!

“ Charlotte, you’re bleeding ,” I blurt, zeroing in on a gash slicing down the full length of her foot’s arch.

“Crimson, stay where you are,” Kaleb commands, tone immovable.

I clench my fist around the banister but adhere. “What happened?”

“I’m so sorry.” Charlotte whimpers, covering her face as Kaleb turns, picking his way gingerly toward me. “I was changing a dead light bulb, and it slipped, and I didn’t see how it broke, and I stepped right on it.”

“Oh, Char,” I murmur.

“I’ll get blood everywhere. Please…”

“Honey…that doesn’t matter.”

Kaleb stops once he reaches me, and I get a better look at the wound. Firm, he says, “Stitches?”

Definitely stitches. I meet his eyes, worried to confirm such a thing right in front of Charlotte when she’s already so pale.

His lips find my forehead in a brief display of comfort. “I’ll drive,” he says, then he softens his voice. “Charlotte, sweetheart, do you want Ava to come with us?”

“Us?” Charlotte tenses, head shaking, curls bouncing. “No, no. I couldn’t ask that of you. I’ll be okay. I-I’ll go to my room, elevate it for a little while. Everything will be…fine.”

Everything will be fine because we are going to the hospital.

“I’ll get Ava,” I say, turning down the steps. “Get a towel to subdue the bleeding before you start the car.”

“On it.” His footsteps follow mine, then head the opposite way once we’re at the bottom of the stairs.

“Ava?” I call as I reenter the kitchen.

She looks up from chopping fresh broccoli florets. “Yes, Mrs. Nightingale?”

“Charlotte’s hurt. She stepped on glass. There’s glass upstairs in the hall. Will you come with us to the hospital?”

“Us?” Ava asks.

“Kaleb’s with her right now, getting something to staunch the flow of blood and bringing the car around.”

Adelhilde whacks her rubber spoon against the side of her pan. “You left Char alone with that man while she’s injured?”

“Adelhilde—” Ava hurries to forfeit the broccoli, “—not now, dear. Let’s ask Esmee to handle the glass on our way out.” She turns me around, ushering me from the kitchen. “Come now. Let’s not dawdle.”

So we don’t.

We don’t dawdle so completely, I forget entirely that I need shoes.