Once he’s gone, Kiara’s facial expression darkens as she pulls me into another hug. “Don’t you go fucking falling in love with him, you hear me? It’s one thing to… help him out—or whatever it is you’re doing. But youcannotfall for him.” She strokes my back as if she’s already picking up the pieces of my broken heart.
“Kiara—”
“Shh, don’t answer that,” she interrupts me. “Just promise me.” She steps back and holds my shoulders, looking up from her five foot one to meet my eyes. “I said, promise me.”
My gaze falters.
“Shit.” Her eyes shine with anger and concern. “You idiot! You fucking idiot.” Then she grabs me again in a full bear hug. “Ihatethat for you. Why did you have to go and do that?”
Her question hangs between us as I step back into the storm.
Because no one else can fake being Noah’s wife as well as I can. Pretending to love Noah comes easy to me—because I’m not pretending at all.
fifteen
Noah
Istart the day holed up in the small office tucked under the staircase, the quarterly report spread in front of me. I try to focus on my task, but thoughts of Willow keep interrupting me, even though I managed to avoid her this morning.
When my father told me about the marriage clause, he explained it originated with the store: according to Noah The First, you couldn’t run a general store on your own. You needed a partner you could trust. More than a business partner: a life partner. Someone with complementary skills and a different sensitivity.
A wife.
“It’s a load of shit, son,” Dad had said, “but there’s no way around it. Thankfully nowhere does it say that your wife needs to work in the business, so you just let her do her thing while you do yours and you’ll live a happy life.”
Dad didn’t always have a happy life in the romance department, but I knew what he meant, and I planned to follow his advice. Ironically, Mom would often be at the store and seemed happy here. But she never made it sound like she was necessary to the smooth running of the operation.
I’ve been operating the store on my own for years now, and I couldn’t see myself sharing the work. I’m set in my ways. I have my processes. I know what sells and what doesn’t. I know how to sell it: just like we always have.
My employees, Dean on the floor and register and Elaine at the deli, have been working here for decades, and they have their routine perfected to a science. When it’s tourist season, they call in their family members to help, and that’s enough. Having a partner would mean discussing changes, options, putting everything I do in question.
Talk about a nightmare.
Adjusting my glasses, I savor the solitude, until it’s interrupted by the front door chiming before Dean’s start time. Against all odds considering the weather, we have a customer. They have to be regulars. With a few lights on, they’ll be able to find their way.
“Let me know if you need anything!” I holler.
I chuckle at an email from a vendor insisting I stock their vacuum cleaning robots, then finish the analysis of the quarterly report. Sales are slipping, but I don’t want to worry about it. It’ll pick up in the summer, when tourists flock into town. Although, I tell myself that each year. It’d be nice to have a solution against seasonal dips in sales, but I suppose that’s the nature of the beast. It’s always been that way, and generations of Callaways have dealt with it.
I will too.
“There you are!” Willow’s voice sounds right next to me.
I jump, taking her in. Her raincoat is open on a summer dress, a splattering of raindrops making it cling to her thighs. Her hair is lightly matted with water, and her eyes are shiny.
I stand from my desk and take my glasses off. She’s quite a sight, and I need to blur the whole picture for a minute. “Hey! On your way to work?” I hope she doesn’t make it a habit to spring on me like that. I could get addicted to it.
She spreads her hands in the pockets of her coat, her floral perfume hitting me in a wave. “Nope. What can I do to help?”
Maybe the bakery had a power outage. Or Chris decided to just stay in bed with Alex, customers be damned. The recent memory of Willow in my own bed overpowers me, and I avert my eyes from her. “Literal rain check?” I ask.
“Something like that.” She takes her coat off, looking for a place to hang it.
“What are you doing?”
She takes a deep breath. “We have a problem,” she says and closes the door to my office. After a slight hesitation, she hangs her coat behind the door, on top of my windbreaker.
I slump on my chair, gesturing to the seat across from my desk.
