“Follow me,” he mutters after a moment.
His stride is confident, only the slightest hitch in his step betraying his prosthetic.
The same shaky breath that left my lips when I finished my dissertation leaves me now. I didn’t expect an evaluation when I met my groom for the first time, but a small smile pulls at my mouth as I follow him out of the airport. For better or worse I passed.
“So that’s a yes on the boxes?” I ask.
“They’re waiting for you at the cabin.”
“Have you met any of my staff? Melissa said the town is small.”
“I’ve seen a few but I don’t socialize much with the locals and even less with newcomers.”
“Oh.”
He stops so abruptly I almost run into his back. This close I can feel his body heat and I’m struck by the sudden longing to hug him close and burrow into that cozy warmth. We haven’t even shaken hands and I’m already hoping for cuddles. Marshallspins to face me, and his stern expression makes it clear therewill notbe cuddles happening anytime soon.
“Do you really want to marry me?” he asks.
“More than anything.”
My brutally honest response catches us both off guard. It’s too emotionally charged for two strangers who only met, and it takes me far outside of my comfort zone. Marshall turns away but not before I notice the slightest darkening of his cheeks above his beard.
“Okay then.”
He doesn’t say much as he leads me to his truck. It’s nondescript in a parking lot filled with similar vehicles but by comparison it’s impeccably maintained. Where other trucks have rust along their fenders or faded and chipping paint, Marshall’s black truck glistens and shines. Before I can open my door, he beats me to it.
I bite back an admonishment. He’s trying to be nice, and I can do the same. Even if I’m a little offended he doesn’t think I can handle opening my own door. I’m setting up and running a field lab with only minimal support for crying out loud. IthinkI can handle the door.
“Why’d you sign up to be a mail order bride?” he asks.
The keys aren’t even in the ignition and he’s already asking me questions. Ones that he could have asked a month ago. Questions that he’s had days to ask and that I expected. It’s like he’s realized the severity of our situation and is now frantically seeking a way out.
Too bad for Marshall Kent. I’m here to stay.
“Men in my field are intimidated by my success and it’s difficult to meet new people with my workload.”
Minutes later we’re on the road headed up to Crescent Ridge when he asks his next question.
“Why me?”
It’s too late for these questions. This is a conversation we should've had weeks ago. I should rip into him but the underlying hint of vulnerability in his gravelly voice won’t let me be snippy with him.
“Why not?” I reply, trying to for nonchalant but to my own ears sounding callous.
“Surely there were better men in your hometown,” he mutters.
“City,” I can’t help but correct him.
“What?”
“I grew up in a city.”
“Ah.” The sound isn’t remotely ashamed or guilty as it should be. This man not only didn’t put any effort into our impending marriage but it’s becoming resoundingly clear that he didn’t put much effort into selecting a wife either.
“You didn’t even read my profile, did you?”
His shameless grin makes my breath catch. It’s absurd.
