Page 31 of Marrying the Gardener (The Bachelor Brothers #3)

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Mother practice I don’t need.

Crimson

“I can’t believe I’ve done this,” I mutter, leaning back against the car door, legs thrown over the center console, bare feet in Kaleb’s lap. “How could I forget shoes ? I walked down stone steps, across pavement, and I didn’t think—for even a second— huh, that doesn’t feel quite right ?”

He kneads into my arch, utterly contented. “You were worried about Charlotte. You weren’t thinking about yourself. It’s beautiful, yet concerning. When you’re thinking about someone else, you fall away as you put their needs before your own. Certainly makes a husband anxious.”

I nudge him in the chest with my foot. “Well, stop being anxious. I hate when people worry about me over nothing.”

“I can’t help it.” He grips my ankle. “I love worrying. It’s my second-favorite hobby, right after gardening.”

“That can’t be good for you.”

“Probably isn’t.”

Sighing, I cock my head back against the glass and look across the visitor parking, at the hospital building. “I hope they get her stitched up quick and easy. Poor thing…”

“They might give her a couple staples instead of stitches. I’m sure she’ll be fine.

” Blowing out a breath, Kaleb works his way up my calf, rubbing deep into the tissue.

“I’m sorry that this situation makes my mood inconsistent with what had just happened downstairs.

Also, you don’t need to watch your weight or anything, but do we need to talk about the fact you ate an entire carton of ice cream tonight? ”

“Sometimes a woman has to eat an entire carton of ice cream, Kaleb.”

Calm, he nods. “In order to drown feelings, I’m told. What feelings were you drowning?”

The ones telling me to climb in his lap and cuddle, hoping I don’t hit the car horn in my fit of reckless abandon. Being in love is, how do you say…? Inconvenient.

When I don’t reply, he smiles, meeting my eyes as he draws his caress up to my knee and back down.

“Quit it,” I mutter.

“Quit what?”

“Your face is an innuendo.”

He laughs, and heat pools, warm and low.

I can’t stop the way it spreads throughout my limbs, enclosing me in peace.

I’ve missed being close with him this past week.

It stressed me out. I don’t know how many times I nearly called Crisis to vomit up my thoughts and hope she’d have some sage wisdom to bestow.

Every time I stopped myself, it was a little harder to cope alone. Which sucks. Because I’m supposed to be used to coping by now.

“Nitpicking my weight was particularly icky of you,” I comment.

“Too far?” he asks.

I cross my arms. “No. Fairly classic, actually. You did it so casually, too. You could be an actor.”

Something in his face shutters. “I’d rather be a gardener. I’m not a fan of spotlights.”

“Due to a disastrous middle school play where you were a vegetable or a giant tooth or something and you tumbled into the brass section of the band during your solo song about digestion?”

“Unfortunately, I do not have any traumatic middle school stories to disclose.”

I pout. “You can’t leave it all up to my imagination. Marriage is a partnership , right?”

He sighs. “My parents were overachievers, to put it kindly. They had high expectations, and failure was met with the discipline I’ve mentioned before.”

“The abuse,” I correct.

Pausing, he stares at my legs for several long moments, then closes his eyes. “Yes. The abuse. They were the sorts of parents who’d dismiss your drawing, then brag about how you were an artist whenever they had an audience. It made me hate standing out. Made me dread it.”

“I’m sorry they didn’t deserve your talent.”

“They deserved a whole lot less than what they got. But…it doesn’t matter now.” He rests his head back against the seat. “I don’t have to deal with them ever again.”

He’s free.

I wonder what it’s like to be free from the people who have hurt us the most. I wonder how I’ll cope with the sorts of memories I see written all over Kaleb’s face right now.

Even when you’re untouchable, history sticks with you.

I will always be a woman who was never good enough as a girl.

I will always know how it feels to be hit by my primary caregiver.

I will never understand what it means to be loved by a parent.

Freedom doesn’t change the past.

It just gives you a chance at a brighter future.

Toying with my fingernails, I say, “I’m glad a disastrous middle school play wasn’t added to your childhood trauma. It may have pushed you over the edge.”

He casts a wry look my way. “Is there a disastrous middle school play you want to talk about, Rose-red?”

Shaking my head, I smile. “No, I was tutored at home, remember? Not a single embarrassing thing has happened to me in my entire life.”

“I believe it.”

It is at this exact moment Ava opens my car door. I fall into the air, saved only by Kaleb’s grip on my leg.

“Oh goodness,” she exclaims, looking down at me and casting a glance toward Kaleb, who appears to be stifling laughter. “Are you all right, Mrs. Nightingale?”

Combing my hair back as I use the ol’ ab muscles to get myself upright again, I say, “Sure,” then I catch sight of Charlotte, hobbling toward the car on crutches, face ghostly pale. “Is…she all right?”

“She’ll be fine. They put a few staples in, told her to keep off it for a little while.”

Carefully, Charlotte reaches for the backseat door handle. “I’m so sorry for the trouble…”

“Dear, don’t you worry about that,” Ava chides.

Charlotte’s weeping eyes fix on Kaleb once she’s tucked herself into the backseat. Swallowing hard, she murmurs, “T-thank you for carrying me into the hospital, sir.”

Kaleb, fully himself, offers her a gentle nod. “I’m glad they got you patched up.”

“This whole thing took four hours,” she whispers. “I’ve made everyone miss dinner. Adelhilde will be so upset.”

“Adelhilde will be fine,” I say. “We can reheat dinner.”

Once I settle myself correctly in my chair, Charlotte’s eyes slip to me. “I hope I didn’t stress out baby…”

Baby?

Oh! Right, yes. Baby. The baby, which I don’t think would even be large enough right now to compare to any fruit.

Why are we worrying about it? It didn’t cut its foot open four hours ago.

“It’s okay. This is good Mom practice.” Surely.

I lift a finger, nodding affirmatively. “Next time, grab shoes.”

“Hopefully,” Kaleb murmurs, starting up the car after Ava gets in, “ next time will be when you’re giving birth.” His suggestive smile is absolutely unnecessary, and I do hope my responding eyeroll makes it clear that I have no intention of actually giving birth to anything anytime soon.