The Reason I Married Him

“I like your shorts,” I say as Aubree walks out of the bathroom in her work outfit for the day. She’s wearing jean shorts frayed at the hem and folded over at the waist. She paired them with a black tank top, put her hair up in a large bun on the top of her head, and tied off the strays with a bandanna.

She glances down at her shorts and then back at me. “They’re regular shorts,” she replies, looking confused.

“They’re nice,” I reply.

She eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“What? I can’t compliment my wife’s shorts?”

She holds up a finger. “One, I’m not your wife.” She holds up another finger. “And two, these shorts are a decade old, and nothing is nice about them.”

“Well, I think they’re nice.”

She mumbles something I don’t hear under her breath and then starts making herself a mug of coffee.

Last night, I threw up a Hail Mary. I do not doubt that Aubree has been hurt, damaged terribly by men in her past. She’s so skittish, and I hate it. I hate that she feels she needs to be stiff around me and seems to be thinking all the time rather than relaxing. That she feels like she doesn’t need affection. I wish she could just let loose, have fun, and stop trying to be so perfect all the fucking time. So last night, even though I knew she wasn’t into touching and affection, I pushed the envelope and attempted something I had no right to try. But I couldn’t let our first night in the same bed be one that left a bad taste in her mouth.

I didn’t want her lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, motionless and scared. She’s so isolated. Emotionally. Even though we’re moving into a contractual obligation with each other, I am, if not anything else, a damn good friend. I have always been affectionate, something I got from my parents, and I know the power of a good hug.

Hopefully, I’ll become someone she can rely on and lean into for support when she needs it. Someone other than her siblings who have their own lives and their own worries. I want her to know that I can be a rock of support.

So I thought spooning her might be a good place to start.

I assumed that it would be a five-second thing, and she’d wiggle away, but she didn’t.

Instead, I was shocked.

I felt her relax.

I felt her breath fall in line with mine.

I felt her slowly fall asleep and followed quickly after.

I woke up this morning in the same position, holding her, her tucked in tight to her pillow. Neither one of us moved or attempted any other position.

I considered getting up and going for a run. Even thought about showering, but I didn’t want to leave the bed, where she’d wake up by herself. I wanted her to know that I was still there for her. The entire night, I protected her.

And that was what happened—she woke up in my arms, went completely stiff when she realized it, and then slid out of bed and went straight to the bathroom.

So . . . magical morning.

“What are you up to today?” I ask her while she sits on the edge of the bed and puts on her socks.

“Working,” she says.

“Great, just what I was hoping.” When she was in the bathroom getting changed, so was I. I’m ready in my work clothes, a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt. I also made the bed when she was in the bathroom. “What are we working on today?”

“We?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at me. “What makes you think this is a we moment?”

“Um, well, who else would I be working with?”

“Maybe yourself. Don’t you have that stepson lover book to write?”

“Nothing is due for a while, so I’m free. Come on, this is our farm, technically. Tell me how I can help.”

“Like I said, Wyatt, I don’t need your help.”

She goes to her travel mug of coffee, takes out the creamer from her mini fridge, and pours some into the steaming liquid. Fuck is she stubborn. Probably the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. And I lived with Cadance Clearwater for several years.

“I know you don’t need it, but I want to offer it. Make me do stuff, put me to work. Does something need to be built? Do you need help picking out chickens? Want to go over future plans? Let me be of assistance.”

“Seriously, Wyatt. We’ve got it covered.”

She puts a lid over her cup of coffee, and I can feel my frustration boil over, so instead of pushing her, I decide to step back.

“Okay,” I say, moving over to where I put my shoes.

As I put them on, she says, “Okay?”

I look up at her expression of disbelief. “Yes, okay.”

“Why don’t I trust that you’re just dropping this conversation and won’t show up on the farm, doing something weird I asked you not to do?”

“You might not know this, Aubree, but I can listen. If you don’t want me out there, fine. I’ll do something else.”

I finish tying my shoes and stand from the bed. “What are you going to do?” she asks, her voice almost in a panic as if she’s worried that I’m going to do something completely unhinged.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” I say. I pocket my phone and head toward the door, where she stops me.

“Can you please just tell me if it has anything to do with the farm?” There really is panic in her eyes, so I shake my head.

“No, Aubree, I wouldn’t mess your farm up, okay? The only thing I want to do is help, but since you won’t let me, I’ll do something else. I’ll see you later.”

She stops me again, and even though I know she hates communication, I can sense she wants to say something. “Um, are you . . . are you angry about, you know, not helping?”

She can’t even look me in the eyes when she says it, and fuck, it makes me want to shake her, to beg her to tell me who has made her this way. Who has made her so skittish, so insecure around men? So untrusting. I probably know who, but I’d dearly like to ask what happened. I want to get to know her on a different level. To understand her better. And not live with a stranger.

This may have started with an idea, a plan, a handshake kind of deal, but with every day I get to know Aubree more, it’s less clinical, less cut and dry. Some gray is being mixed into this deal, and the gray wants to get to know Aubree and see what makes her tick. With Mac, she’s warm, attentive, and kind. She stirs Hattie, admires Ryland, and she dotes on her niece. She’s firm but considerate to her staff. She’s an incredibly smart, focused, and selfless person, but I doubt anyone but her family sees that.

In the short time I’ve spent with Aubree, I’ve realized that it’s not that she’s grumpy, but she’s guarded. She’s been hurt and has put up walls to avoid being hurt further.

I want to be the person she allows to peek over it. We might only be together on paper for a year, but I’d love the chance to be her friend. I need her to give me a chance. And that surprises me. Because a few weeks ago, I was a devastated mess about a disappearing fiancée.

“Am I angry with you? No, Aubree,” I say as I tip her chin up with my finger. “I’m not angry. Do I want to help you? Of course. But I’m not going to pressure you. I want you to feel safe around me and that means letting you go at your own pace.” I release her chin and reach for the knob, but she stops me again.

“Um, about last night.”

“What about it?” I ask.

“I, uh . . .” She looks down at her coffee. “I’m not, you know, like that.”

“Like what?”

“The cuddling type,” she says, still avoiding eye contact.

“You told me that last night.”

“Well, I didn’t want you thinking that’s what I need from you or anything. Like I don’t need you to hold me every night or whatever.” She tries to brush it off, but I see right through her.

“I know,” I answer. “I truly know you don’t need anything from me, Aubree. You’re strong, you’re capable, and you are so fucking smart. The last thing you need is my help, and I mean that. But it’s okay to lean in, lean on someone. And if you feel like you need that, I’m here for you. I’m not your enemy. I’m not someone you need to worry about. I’m here for you, whatever you need, even if that’s someone to hold you at night so you don’t feel so . . . alone.”

Her beautiful eyes flash up to mine.

Her teeth pull on the corner of her lip.

And then she says something very unexpected.

“Thank you.”

And there she is. There is the woman who hides behind her gruff exterior.

Thank you.

“Any time,” I say. “See you tonight. Want to go out to dinner?”

“Sure,” she says, shocking me again.

“Okay, see you tonight.”

“WHY DOES it feel like it’s been months since I’ve seen you?” Laurel says as she scoops me into a hug.

“Because you got used to me sleeping on your couch, being with you almost every waking hour, so a few days apart seems like a lifetime.”

“That could be it. By the way, I can still feel your body imprint on the couch. Makes me miss you.”

“That’s so touching,” I say as we head toward the jewelry store.

Once I knew Aubree wouldn’t accept my help, I drove into town and called Laurel on the way, asking if she’d meet up with me and help me pick out a ring. She thought it was insane but didn’t want to miss it. We set a time and a place to meet, nearly halfway between her house and my new one. But before, I stopped at The Cliffs. I went in to check on how the bear claw was selling, and lo and behold, Hank has sold out the past two days. I don’t know if it’s me or what, but I find it hilarious that everything I seem to touch—or eat—the town consumes immediately. Luckily, he saved one in case I came in, and Hank gave it to me for free along with my coffee.

I tried to pay, but he said my money wasn’t good at his establishment, then proceeded to ask me what my eating schedule was like. He wants to let me know when the next new batch of cinnamon buns he’s been working on comes out so people can catch me eating them.

Who knew I was going to become a small-town food influencer?

“How was the drive?” I ask Laurel as I hold the door open for her.

“Not bad. I had two meetings in the car, so the drive went by very quickly. On the way back, I’ll be able to catch up on my true crime podcasts.”

“Are you listening to Blood on the Door?” I ask as we walk into the jewelry shop.

“Yes, I’m on episode three, so don’t spoil anything for me.”

“I won’t,” I say, “but if you were wondering if it’s the⁠—”

She clamps her hand over my mouth, causing me to laugh. “Don’t you dare.”

When she releases me, I say, “Come on, I would never. But it’s fun to tease you.”

“More like torture,” she says just as a sales associate walks up to us.

The man in a medium gray suit and red tie looks like he just woke up from the dead with his pale features and dark circles under his eyes. In a thriller, he’d be considered a suspect but would end up just being a creepy old man rather than the killer. He’s the kind of person you put in a book to throw the reader off the scent.

“Welcome to Barbitz Jewelry. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Looking for engagement rings,” I say, my hands smoothing together.

“Aw, how nice. And I presume this is your fiancée?”

“You are presuming wrong,” Laurel says. “I’m the best friend and here to make sure he doesn’t pick out anything hideous.”

“Ah, the voice of reason,” the man says. “Well, my name is Gerald, and I’m happy to help you with anything you might need. I’ll direct you to the rings, and you can browse. If you want me to take anything out, I’d be pleased to.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Right this way.” Gerald ushers us over to a long row of engagement rings. “Here you are. If you’re looking for something simpler, those would be on the right down this way. Flashier would be over here on the left. And a healthy middle would be right here. I’ll give you some time to peruse.”

“Thank you, Gerald,” I say before he moves away.

“What do you think she’d like?” Laurel asks.

“Simple,” I say without even having to think about it. “She’s very simple and not flashy at all.”

“And how do you know that?” Laurel asks.

“She doesn’t wear jewelry in the first place. She barely wears makeup. She has this fresh-face thing going on that’s pretty. She keeps herself grounded, and dressing up for her is a simple sundress. I don’t think she cares for heels but would rather wear her work boots.”

Laurel’s brow raises in question. “Um . . . wow, that’s more than I expected you to know about her.”

“Just observations.” I shrug.

“Uh-huh, and what did you say about her non-makeup look?” Laurel asks.

I roll my eyes. “I know where you’re going with this, and you can stop that. Nothing is going on between us. And I mean nothing. She won’t even hold my hand. She’s skittish most of the time when around me, or she’s putting up a wall.” Besides last night, but Laurel doesn’t need to know that.

“Would you like her to hold your hand?” Laurel teases.

“No, I mean, yes, but not like in the way you’re thinking. If we’re going to make this look more convincing, she’ll need to be more affectionate.”

“Maybe she thinks you smell or something. I wouldn’t want to hold someone’s hand who smells.”

“Be real, Laurel.”

She laughs and scans the rings. “Well, she’s skittish for one of two reasons. Either she’s scared of you, which I don’t think is the case given how she stands up to you, or something in her past prevents her from being intimate.”

“It’s definitely the latter,” I say, spotting a simple ring with three stones that could be an option. “I don’t know the extent of it all, but I do know she didn’t have a great childhood, and it seems like her ex was a dick, so she’s probably tainted from both of those.” Not to mention evil Amanda.

“Are you going to try to fix it?”

“No,” I answer even though last night was my first attempt.

“You are such a liar,” she says, bumping into my shoulder. “I know you, Wyatt. She’s a project to you, isn’t she?”

“Christ, don’t ever say that around her.”

“Well, she is . . . right? You see her as a project.”

Sighing, I turn to Laurel and say, “I don’t like that she’s been hurt. You can see her guard is up, and you can see the hurt in her eyes. It’s clear as day, and I hate that.”

“Which means you want to make it better.”

I shrug. “If I can at least open her up, let her know that not all men are asses, then I don’t see an issue with that.”

“The only issue is . . . if she actually falls for you.”

I shake my head. “No fucking way. She barely tolerates me. I don’t think she sees me in a romantic way. There’s no potential for this being anything but a friendship.”

“So you’re not even friends at this point?”

“Nope. I’d say mild acquaintances. I’d love to get to a point by the end of this where we split amicably and are still friends. Right now, I do not see that happening. I think she’ll kick me out of the house and say good riddance.”

“You’d still see her, though, because of MacKenzie, right?”

“Yeah, there will always be that connection, but she’ll most likely avoid me, and that’s what I don’t want to happen. I just want to be friends, and if that means attempting to make her more comfortable around me and helping her through whatever pain she might be feeling, then I’ll do that.”

She nods and turns toward the rings again. “What about your pain?”

“What pain?” I ask even though I know exactly what she’s talking about.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Wyatt. You can’t tell me that this new plan, this going off and playing farm and trying to make the town love you, isn’t a distraction from what’s really going on inside you.”

“Haven’t really thought about it.”

“You haven’t?” she asks in disbelief. “How come I don’t believe that?”

“Because apparently, you like to think you know everything about me.”

“I do,” she counters as she points out a ring on the right that catches my eye. “And even though you don’t like to admit it, I believe there is still some hurt inside you from how Cadance ended your relationship. That’s not something you get over easily. I want you to move on and get better, but I don’t want you to mask what’s going on in your heart with a project, that project being a new wife.”

I turn toward her and look her in the eyes. “I promise, I’m not masking anything.”

“Okay, then did you tell her about Cadance?”

How did I know she was going to ask that? Oh because she’s my nosy best friend who thinks she knows everything about me.

Which she does.

“I haven’t,” I answer. “And not because I’m hiding something, but because I just don’t think it’s necessary or it hasn’t been the right time. Aubree is dealing with her own problems and doesn’t like emotions, so she won’t want to sit down with me and hear about how my fiancée broke up with me the night before our wedding.”

“Maybe she does.”

“Trust me,” I say with conviction. “She doesn’t.” I then clear my throat and say, “Gerald, I think I found something I like.”

“Lovely,” he says, walking up to us. The entire time, I can feel Laurel’s gaze on me. I know she wants to talk about this more, but thankfully, as Gerald pulls out the ring she pointed out, she drops the conversation, which is perfect because I was done talking about it.

“ETHEL, CAN I TALK TO YOU?” I ask as I find her rocking on the porch of the inn. I’m meeting Aubree for dinner in a few minutes, but I need to tackle something first.

I ended up getting the ring Laurel pointed out because it was perfect. A cluster of diamonds set on the top, while petals of diamonds are scattered down the sides of the ring, making it look like a cascade of flowers. It’s earthy, natural, and none of the diamonds are so big that Aubree would be embarrassed by the size, something I feel like she’d think about. I stole a ring from her dresser top, and luckily, the ring we purchased was the right size. Laurel joked about it being a sign, and I just waved her off.

“Of course, dear. What can I help you with?”

“Well, it requires some discretion,” I say.

She lifts from her rocking chair and says, “Say no more. Come to my office.”

Her brown-and-gold kaftan blows in the breeze as she weaves me through the front doors of the inn and to the left, past registration and to an office in the back that overlooks the yard scattered in Adirondack chairs, yard games, and picnic tables.

“Shut the door behind you,” she says as she takes a seat at her desk and folds her hands together, looking all sorts of business. I shut the door and take a seat across from her. “How can I help you, Wyatt?”

“I need this to stay between us. Think you can do that?” I ask, knowing full well it won’t stay between us, but I’m okay with that.

“Of course,” she says, her hand over her heart. “You have my full discretion.”

“Thank you.” I cross my ankle over my knee and say, “I plan on proposing to Aubree and need your help.”

Her eyes light up as she sits back in her chair, a satisfied smile spreading across her cheeks. “Well, isn’t that just wonderful news!”

“It is. We’ve been talking about the idea of marriage, and well, I think it’s time to ask. I know it might seem soon to some people, but when you know, you know.”

“I could not agree more.” She clutches her heart. “And if anyone needs this love, it’s our dear Aubree. She has been through so much. Those Rowley kids are survivors. As you probably know, Ryland took most of their father’s mistreatment, Cassidy was there to hold everyone together, and Hattie was protected from a lot of the abuse in that family, but Aubree, she’s a different story. She received a combination of everything. The abuse, the neglect, the lack of love. She fell to the wayside and didn’t get to live the kind of childhood she should have. None of them did, but I always thought Aubree was the one who suffered the most. It’s one thing to have a purpose during a time of struggle. It’s another to be forgotten.”

Jesus.

She was abused? I know things were hard for them, but . . . to hear that her father actually struck her, that . . . that creates a beast inside me that wants nothing more than to protect her.

“And then Matt treated her so poorly and left town without blinking an eye. Amanda was no better to her. A best friend does not marry one’s best friend’s ex. Not to mention, broadcasting that illicit decision.” She sighs. Nothing gets past Ethel. “I didn’t think she’d allow anyone else close to her heart.” Ethel looks at me with beaming eyes. “Then you come along. I just couldn’t be happier.”

God, when I hear shit like that, it actually makes me feel guilty. Like what will the town think when we divorce in a year? Are they going to have something bad to say about me? I sure hope not. Are they going to pity Aubree all over again? She would hate that.

“Thank you,” I reply. “I’m pretty happy too, but I don’t want to celebrate too soon, not when she hasn’t said yes yet.”

“Oh she will,” Ethel says. “I see the way she looks at you.” Do you now? Is Ethel mistaking disdain for love? Because I’ve seen the way Aubree looks at me, and the only spark I can find in those green irises is a spark of fire, ready to attack—and not in a good way. “There’s no way she says no to a man like you.”

Things I need to remember—always visit Ethel when I need a boost in confidence.

“I appreciate that.”

“So.” She leans forward. “How can I help you?”

I smile and lean forward too. “About that End of Summer Jubilee . . .”

“SERIOUSLY, this is the best fucking pizza ever.” I take another bite of the crust and revel in the crispiness.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone who looks like they want to make out with food before, but here you are,” Aubree says.

“Yes, here I am,” I say, eyeing the last piece between us. “I’d make out with this pizza any day.”

She wipes her mouth with her napkin. “That’s not disturbing at all.”

I wiggle my eyebrows at her. “Jealous I’m not making out with you?”

Her expression falls flat. “Definitely not.”

I chuckle and finish my crust.

When I first met up with her for dinner, she was turtling in a bit, shy and slightly awkward, but now that I’ve spent the past thirty minutes coaxing her into talking to me and sharing about her day, she’s loosened up. This is my favorite side of her when she slightly lifts the veil and shows her true self.

It’s when her true personality shines.

It’s when she gives me shit but with a smirk.

“Tell me, Aubree, if you were to make out with a food, what would it be?”

“That’s seriously the line of questioning you’re going with tonight?”

“Might as well,” I say as I point at the last piece. “Can I eat that?”

“I don’t want to be the person who comes between a man and his lover, by all means.” She gestures toward the pizza, and I smirk as I pick it up. See, when she loosens up, she’s funny.

“Come here, lover,” I say before taking a large bite. She rolls her eyes at me and takes a sip of her Diet Coke. “So . . . what food are you making out with?”

“I’m going to guess you’ll keep asking me until I answer. Am I right?”

“That would be correct,” I say. “So best you just give in and answer.”

She sighs heavily and leans back in her chair as she taps her finger on the table. “Not that I want to answer such a ridiculous question, but if I had to choose, I guess it would be mac and cheese.”

“What?” I ask, surprised. “Really? I don’t think I’ve seen you eat mac and cheese at all since I’ve been here.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t love it. It has to be the right mac and cheese. I don’t like to just eat any kind. The Cliffs makes the best here in town, but it’s not on the menu every week. It’s a special. Hank always lets me know when he plans on making it because he knows I don’t want to miss it.”

“Hank,” I say, clutching my heart. “The best fucking bear claw I’ve ever had.”

“The bear claw that he’s close to naming after you, which Hayes is bitter about since he told you about them.”

I lean forward. “Is Hank really saying that, or is that a rumor? Did you hear it from his mouth? Fuck, I hope he does. The cherry pie is already under consideration for a new name that includes me. Having two menu items in town would be a dream.”

“You have problems.”

“Problems or goals, babe?” I wink at her. After I swallow my bite, I say, “So mac and cheese is a favorite. Maybe I’ll try to make you some.”

“Please don’t.”

I scoff. “Do you think I won’t be good at it? You don’t know about my cooking abilities.”

“Yes, I do. You told me you weren’t great at cooking. Something about being able to only make a peanut butter and jelly.”

I clutch my heart jokingly. “Mrs. Preston, look at you listening.”

“You know, it’s not a requirement to be so dramatic.”

“But it’s what makes you smile,” I reply.

“Does it, though?” she asks, and I can see the slightest tilt of the corners of her mouth.

“Yes, it does. But back to the task at hand.”

“And what task would that be?” she asks.

“Getting to know what makes you tick. What makes you happy. So mac and cheese is your make-out partner⁠—”

“Can you not put it that way?”

“No, I prefer to use those terms because it makes you roll your eyes, and if you don’t roll your eyes at me at least twenty times a day, then I’m not doing my job.”

“Your job of what?” she asks. “Irritating me?”

“Precisely,” I say while I lean forward and boop her on the nose, causing her eyes to roll again. “See.” I point at her. “That’s number fifteen. Well on my way to hitting my quota for the day.” She mutters something unintelligible under her breath, but that smile still peeks through, letting me know I’m still in the clear with teasing her. “So if you were to have a threesome with your mac and cheese, who would you invite for . . . dessert?”

“I hate this game,” she states.

“But you’re obviously still going to play.”

“Do I even have an option?” she asks.

“I think it’s cute that you think there’s a slight possibility, but no, there’s no option for you.”

“That’s what I thought.” She huffs but then gives her answer some thought. “If you’re talking about my dream meal, because I think that’s what you’re trying to determine in your ass-backward way, I’d say a Caesar salad with croutons, but pumpernickel croutons because those are the best. Mac and cheese from The Cliffs, because Hank makes this incredible cheese sauce that is unbeatable. After that, I’d top it all off with some sort of ice cream sundae.”

“Not cherry pie?” I ask, surprised.

She shakes her head. “Don’t get me wrong, I love cherry pie, but I love ice cream even more. And I especially love it when it’s a simple sundae, but I’d take any kind of sundae, honestly.”

“How do you define a simple sundae?”

“Don’t judge me, because I know this will come off as boring and bland, but I’d define it as vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, chopped peanuts, whipped cream, cherries, and chocolate sprinkles.”

“Hell,” I say, wiping my mouth with my napkin. “That sounds really fucking good right now. And would you eat that while watching something?”

“Uh . . . sure,” she says, confused.

“Like what?” I ask.

“I don’t know, a movie? That’s a weird question.”

“No,” I say, “I’m trying to see what kind of movies and shows you like to watch.”

“Oh, anything about murder.” She answers so quickly that I actually feel my balls quiver.

“That’s unsettling for me.”

She chuckles, and it’s such a sweet sound. I don’t get to hear it often, but when it does come out, I enjoy it immensely. It makes me think that I’m doing all the right things.

“I find murder fascinating⁠—”

“Once again, that’s horrifying for me.”

“I don’t want to commit the murder. I just like the mystery and thrill behind the documentaries or movies. It’s the same as you writing about it. I just really like action-packed things and suspense, and I don’t mind a romantic interest there either.”

“But it has to have a murder?”

“Obviously. If no one is murdered, then I’m not interested.”

“Looks like I’m going to sleep with one eye open from now on.”

“Probably best.” She smirks.

Fuck, that smile. She’s gorgeous on the regular, but when that smile comes into play, I can practically feel it pierce through my soul, like I was assigned the task in life to make her smile.

“Okay, so murder and ice cream. Got it.” I stand from my chair and say, “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“Uh, to enjoy some murder and ice cream. Did you not understand that?”

“Apparently not. Where are we going to enjoy this murder and ice cream?”

“I’ll show you,” I say. I lend out my hand for her to take it, but instead, she sticks her hands in her pockets, giving me a clear sign that there will be no hand-holding. Okay. We’ll have to work on that.

Maybe what I have planned will grant me my first hand-hold.