“You’re really moving to the mountains?”
“Yes, and I’ll be running a field study there for at least a year.”
She stands in the doorway like a trembling leaf. Her confidence drained, and for the first time in years, she exhibits a trace of the nervous college student I hired.
“Can I go with you?”
Her question startles me. We don’t socialize outside of work, but I can’t imagine the reason a woman who wears heels and skirts to work would want to go to a remote mountain town. Let alone live there.
“I know I’m not a lab member, but I can help with the work. I can report to the main office, handle inventory, secure lodging, and I can fetch coffee!”
She’s out of breath and her face is red by the time she’s done. I note the way her hands clench into fists and the earnestexpression on her face. No matter her reasoning, the choice is an easy one for me to make.
“Of course,” I reply to her visible relief. “Even with a field lab, administrative duties never end. I must warn you. Our work will be almost exclusively outdoors. We’ll be working in tents and hiking, there will be no air-conditioned office or food delivery.”
“That’s fine,” she replies. “Absolutely fine. I won’t let you down Dr. Carter.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you!” she shouts before she dashes out of my office.
The entire interaction was odd. Her behavior was certainly uncharacteristic. It would prick at an anthropologist’s brain or perhaps that of a biologist. Luckily, I am a botanist, with little more than a cursory curiosity I return to organizing my move.
I’ve messaged Marshall but his replies are slow coming and distinctly lacking warmth. There is a clinical precision. He answers every question. He always replies but he seems almost detached.
One night worry bubbles up making me second guess myself and I almost confront him and cancel the entire move. But rational thought keeps me from reaching out. The service is voluntary. If he didn’t want a wife, he wouldn’t have signed up. If he didn’t want to marry me, he wouldn’t have proposed.
My insecurity is my own problem. His practical nature is a trait I should be grateful for, not one that should have me second guessing this decision. I’m getting married to a man who appreciates me. Who sees me as something more than just a brain.
Chapter Three
Marshall
I should have stopped her from coming.
I had every chance to call off the engagement. Dr. Tabitha Carter is nothing if not an excellent communicator, while I’veundoubtedly given her the cold shoulder. I should’ve told her that it wasn’t going to work.
That my proposal was a drunken mistake.
Instead, I’ve allowed this to move forward. She’s handled every step of her move from her own personal belongings to the equipment needed for her lab and arranging for her staff’s lodging. I haven’t lifted a finger. Another woman would be miffed by my lack of help, but she is full steam ahead. Last week boxes began to arrive at my cabin and the first members of her staff have already settled in at the Firefly Inn.
She’s going to step off that plane, take one look at my missing leg, and turn right back around. I should have told her about it. Now she’s gone through all the trouble of moving her work out here. Other people are involved now.
The staff who picked up their lives to move out here to participate in a field study and further their careers. Harriet, the innkeeper who is celebrating that she’s booked through winter and not just the summer and fall tourist season.
I’ve caused irreparable damage to Tabitha’s career. They might never trust her to lead another field study.
Waiting for her plane to land is tedious. The conversation that’s about to occur is going to be uncomfortable. I can only hope that she can bounce back from this.
I see her first. Even with the tourism center we don’t get many people flying into the Bramble airport and the curvy brunette stands out amongst the small crowd. Surrounded by a dozen people who look like they rolled out of bed and onto the plane she looks like she walked out of a business meeting.
She’s dressed in a matching black blazer and pencil skirt with a bright white button-down shirt. With her hair pinned back into a tidy professional bun and her glasses she looks like a librarian ready to scold a loud student. The brief glance I gave her profile was criminal.
Sending her a marriage proposal while I was deep in the bottle is making more sense the longer I look at her. Dark green eyes and pouty pink lips highlight the straight line of her nose and the soft curve of her jaw. If I had the skill to paint my ideal woman, she would put the canvas to shame.
Seeing her in person tempts me to keep my mouth shut. Physically she’s every schoolboy fantasy brought to life, and I already know from her messages that she’s a practical woman. It’s been years since I’ve felt this intense pull, but memories of my last relationship are enough to shake off the pang of longing.
Cara and I knew each other for years before I proposed. Before I enlisted. We were high school sweethearts, and she couldn’t even make it as the fiancée of an enlisted man. She outright refused to live in base housing.
