The sadness in his tone makes my chest squeeze. I suppose his worst nightmare would be to be stuck somewhere small like Willowbrook for the rest of his life. “You teaching kids how to play the guitar—it’s hard to imagine.”
A flash of him with our own child on his lap, teaching him or her how to play, flashes in my mind, and I force it back.
“Thanks for the compliment.” He steps closer to the board, shoulder brushing mine, and my anxiety spikes.
I hate showing these boards to anyone before the bride and groom see them. For him to see my work at this raw stage makes me want to throw my body in front of it and shield it.
“I like the way you have the lights falling down off the branches instead of being strung across. Feels more romantic. Not as commercial.”
His words land too warmly, pressing into the part of me that likes it when people appreciate my vision. I shove away the feeling. “Strung lights are still romantic.”
A silent chuckle makes his back rise and fall. “Take the compliment, Romy.”
I want to fight him, to push back, to prove I don’t need his approval. But what’s the point? Every night I remind myself that eventually I have to tell him he’s the father of the baby growing inside me. That I don’t want him back, not really, but I want him to show up, to co-parent, to love our little one. It isn’t the baby’s fault we were careless.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He circles around, thumbs hooked in his pockets, wearing that arrogant grin I want to smack off his face. “Whoa. That seemed too easy.”
I shrug, pretending to dig through papers on my desk. “We did agree to be cordial.”
“We agreed to be friends actually,” he clarifies.
I glance over my shoulder, catching the way he’s smiling at me. “Right.”
“After seeing this,” he gestures to the board, “I’m hoping you might help me dress the set for the wedding in the video. I get that it won’t be easy to work together, but it’s not like I know a lot about this netting stuff.” He fingers a scrap of tulle.
“Netting?”
“See? I don’t even know what it’s called.”
“Tulle.”
“You’re the expert. That’s why I’m asking you to help.”
I huff out a breath, staring at Ben and Gillian’s board. I love finding beauty in scraps and sketches, building something magical out of a blank canvas. But never in my life did I imagine doing it for an audience as big as this music video will have.
“I’m sure you could hire a professional to do it.” I arch an eyebrow at him and make my way over to take a seat at my desk.
“That’s what I’m attempting to do right now.”
I frown. “I mean some Hollywood type.”
“I want you. You’re the one who’s put together who knows how many weddings in the venue, not some Hollywood type.”
I want you.
I try not to let the words settle into my bones, but it proves difficult. If only he meant them the way I’d once hoped he would.
“I’d give you the credit. And I’ll pay you obviously.”
My chest tightens. That’s how he keeps people at arm’s length. He makes it transactional and professional. “I don’t need either. You’re already doing enough for the ranch.”
He comes around my desk, looming tall, taking up space until I can’t think straight. “I want to. It’s the fair thing to do.”
“Or it’s just to ease your guilty conscience.” My hand goes to the second drawer out of habit, and I freeze. The pregnancy test is still there. I couldn’t bring it home, didn’t know where to hide it, but for sentimental reasons, I couldn’t throw it away. This baby might not have been planned, but he or she is still very loved, and I want to remember when I first found out I was going to be a mom.
“I’d really like your help on this,” he says softly. “This is clearly your thing. It’s not mine?—”
