Page 2 of The Temporary Wife

Gianna

I stood in the back room of Blossom & Vine, staring at a half-finished arrangement of autumn chrysanthemums and wondering how I’d managed to mess up something so simple.

The bronze and gold blooms should have complemented each other perfectly, but instead they looked chaotic, unbalanced like my thoughts after last night’s conversation with Colby.

What if you were my wife?

The words had been echoing in my head since I’d driven away from his house twelve hours ago.

I’d barely slept, tossing and turning while my mind replayed every moment of our conversation.

The desperation in his steel-gray eyes. The way his voice had cracked when he’d said he couldn’t lose Luca.

The impossible request that had made my heart race for all the wrong reasons.

The bell above the front door chimed, and I heard footsteps on the old hardwood floors. I glanced at the clock. It was eight-thirty in the morning. We weren’t officially open until nine, but I’d unlocked the door when I’d arrived at seven, too restless to stay home.

“We’re not quite open yet,” I called out, not looking up from the stubborn arrangement.

“Good thing I’m not here as a customer.”

I recognized the voice immediately. Summer Redman, my closest friend besides Colby, and conveniently the daughter-in-law of Kay Redman who often watched Luca. Summer ran the bakery three doors down and had a talent for showing up exactly when I needed to talk.

“You look like hell,” she said, appearing in the doorway with two cups of coffee and a knowing expression.

“Thanks. Really what every woman wants to hear first thing in the morning.”

She handed me one of the cups and leaned against my workbench. “Colby called Cory at six this morning.”

Cory was Summer’s husband. The small-town gossip network ran more efficiently than any phone tree ever invented.

“Oh?” I tried to sound casual, but Summer saw right through me.

“He asked if Cory knew any good family lawyers. Said he had a custody issue.” Her dark eyes studied my face carefully. “You want to tell me why you look like you haven’t slept, and why Colby Marshall is suddenly in need of legal counsel?”

I sipped my coffee—perfectly made, as always—and debated how much to share.

Summer had been my friend ever since I’d moved to Millbrook and opened the shop.

She’d been the first person to welcome me, showing up with homemade cookies and an offer to help me paint the walls.

But this felt too big, too complicated to put into words.

She’s also the one who introduced me to Colby.

“Lyla’s trying to get full custody of Luca,” I said finally.

Summer’s eyebrows shot up. “What? That’s insane. Colby’s a great father.”

“I know. But apparently she thinks he’s providing an unstable environment. Too many hours at work, relying too heavily on babysitters.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. “She’s probably been planning this for months.”

“Damn.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to say more. Summer was perceptive. If I gave her too much information, she’d piece together exactly what Colby had asked me to do. And I wasn’t ready to hear someone else tell me how crazy it was.

“You care about that little boy,” Summer said quietly.

“Of course I do. He’s—” I stopped, my throat tightening unexpectedly. “He’s like my own son, Summer. I’ve been there for every scraped knee, every bedtime story, every school event when Colby couldn’t make it. The thought of Lyla taking him away . . .”

“Hey.” Summer set down her coffee and put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. Colby has rights. Any judge will see how much that boy loves his father.”

I wanted to believe her, but I’d seen enough custody battles to know that logic didn’t always win. Lyla had advantages. Money, the assumption that mothers were naturally better caregivers, and a lawyer who probably specialized in making good fathers look inadequate.

The bell chimed again, and this time I heard lighter footsteps. A child’s footsteps.

“Miss G?” Luca’s voice carried through the shop, tentative and hopeful.

My heart clenched. “Back here, sweetheart.”

He appeared in the doorway, still in his pajamas with a jacket thrown over them. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and he clutched his backpack in one hand.

“Luca, honey, what are you doing here? Where’s your dad?”

“He’s talking on the phone with someone important. He’s using his serious voice.” Luca’s gray eyes—so much like Colby’s—were wide with the kind of worry children get when they sense adult stress but don’t understand it. “I got scared.”

Summer and I exchanged glances. She squeezed my shoulder once more and picked up her coffee. “I’ll let you two talk,” she said quietly. “But call me later, okay?”

After she left, I knelt down to Luca’s eye level. He’d walked the three blocks from his house to my shop, something he’d done dozens of times before when he was worried or excited about something. Colby had taught him the route and made him promise to only use it in emergencies.

“Dad’s not in trouble,” I said carefully. “He’s dealing with some complicated grown-up stuff. Did he know you were coming here?”

Luca shook his head, suddenly looking guilty. “I left him a note. He was talking really quiet and making worried faces, and I was scared.”

The serious voice. I knew exactly what he meant, the controlled tone Colby used when he was trying not to lose his temper. He’d probably been talking to his lawyer, getting the full scope of what he was up against.

“Okay, let’s call him and let him know you’re safe.” I reached for my phone, but Luca caught my hand.

“Miss G? Are you sad too?”

The innocent question hit me like a physical blow. “Why would you think I’m sad, sweetheart?”

“You have that face like when you mess up the flowers and have to start over. And you look tired like Dad does when he has too much work.”

I closed my eyes, marveling at how perceptive children could be. They might not understand the details, but they always picked up on the emotional undercurrents.

“Sometimes grown-ups worry about things,” I said carefully. “But that doesn’t mean anything bad is going to happen to you.”

“Is Dad worried about me?”

“Your dad loves you more than anything in the whole world. Sometimes when people love someone that much, they worry about keeping them safe and happy.”

Luca nodded solemnly, accepting this explanation the way six-year-olds did. “Can we make Dad feel better? Maybe with cookies?”

Despite everything, I smiled. In Luca’s world, most problems could be solved with cookies or hugs or maybe a really good story. If only adult life were that simple.

“I think cookies are an excellent idea,” I said. “But first, let’s call your dad so he doesn’t worry about where you are.”

Colby answered on the first ring, relief flooding his voice when I told him Luca was safe with me. “Jesus, I found his note, but . . . thank you. I’ll be right there.”

“Take your time. We’re going to go upstairs and make cookies.”

“Can I talk to him?”

I handed the phone to Luca, who immediately launched into an explanation about how he’d remembered to look both ways and use the crosswalks, just like Dad had taught him. I listened to his side of the conversation, hearing Colby’s patient responses through the phone.

“Dad wants to know if you need anything from the store for the cookies,” Luca said, covering the phone with his small hand.

“Tell him we have everything we need.”

After they hung up, I locked my shop up took Luca upstairs to my apartment.

We spent the next twenty minutes mixing dough and talking about normal six-year-old things.

Like his upcoming soccer game, whether dinosaurs could swim, and his theory that vegetables tasted better when you dipped them in ranch dressing.

I let myself get lost in his chatter, grateful for the distraction from the turmoil in my head.

When Colby arrived, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had clenched into fists at his sides. But his face transformed when he saw Luca standing on a step stool, carefully dropping chocolate chips into cookie dough.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” he said, ruffling his son’s hair.

“Miss G let me crack the eggs, and I only got a little bit of shell in the bowl,” Luca announced proudly. “We fished it out with more eggshell which is funny.” He giggled.

“Good job, buddy.” Colby’s eyes met mine over Luca’s head, and I saw gratitude there along with the worry. “Thank you,” he mouthed.

We spent the next hour baking cookies and letting Luca tell us elaborate stories about the adventures of Cookie Monster and Big Bird. Normal domestic activities that felt both comforting and heartbreaking, given what we were facing.

When it was time to go, Luca hugged me tight around the waist. “Thanks for making cookies with me, Miss G. And for not being sad anymore.”

“Thank you for helping me feel better, sweetheart.”

After they left, I sat alone in my apartment surrounded by the smell of fresh cookies and the weight of an impossible decision. Colby’s request echoed in my mind, along with Summer’s words about how much I cared for Luca.

I walked back down to my shop, turned the closed sign to open and tried not to think about the customers I may have missed.

Instead, I tried to focus on the chrysanthemum arrangement, but my hands shook as I reached for the stems. Three years.

That’s how long I’d been in love with Colby Marshall, though I’d never admitted it to anyone, not even myself, most of the time.

It had started the night his world fell apart.

November third, to be exact. I remembered because it was the same day I’d gotten the call that my own father had remarried without telling me, making it clear once again that I wasn’t really part of anyone’s family.

I’d been wallowing in my apartment with a bottle of wine and a terrible romantic comedy when my phone rang at midnight.