“You do.” His voice is gentle, not mocking. “It’s okay to be nervous. Meeting someone’s family is… a lot. And the Eastonfamily hoard is a lot of people. But they’re also really good people, and they are going to love you.”
“I’m not nervous about your family,” I say.
Mostly true.
“Then what are you nervous about?” he asks quietly.
I hesitate, feeling the plane taxi beneath us. “What if they don’t believe us?” I finally whisper. “What if they see through this whole arrangement and then your mother hates me and your cousin hates me and your sisters hate me and—”
“Whoa,” he says softly. “Way to escalate.”
He shifts in his seat so he’s facing me more fully, broad shoulder blocking out the aisle.
“They won’t,” he says. His voice has a low, steady confidence he gets before a big game. “Because we’re not going to act like it’s fake. We’re going to act as if we’re married. Which, technically, we are.”
“Legally married,” I say. “Not actually—”
“Kat.” He reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together, the motion so easy and practiced that it makes my breath catch. “We’ve got this. I promise.”
His palm is hot to the touch, solid and grounding. I squeeze back before I can overthink it. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes, grinning. “Now come on. Let’s get our bags before my mom starts calling the airport demanding to know why they’ve kidnapped her son and his bride.”
Bride.
I pretend my stomach doesn’t flip at that.
Scottie rents a truck at the airport. A massive black Ford that looks like it could drive over an entire row of compact cars and not notice.
“Couldn’t get something smaller?” I ask as I hoist myself into the passenger seat, feeling approximately three feet tall.
“In Montana?” he snorts. “This is a mid-size.”
He pulls out of the lot and onto the road, one hand easy on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh in time with the song on the radio.
“Besides,” he adds, “we might need the extra space if my mom sends us home with leftovers. Which she will. There will be at least three types of casserole, two pies, and something in a Tupperware that might be soup or might be gravy. We won’t know until we get home.”
I try to picture his mother as I watch the landscape roll past.
Montana is… stunning.
The world opens up the farther we get from the airport. The sky feels wide and endless, with mountains rising in the distance, their peaks already dusted in early snow. Aspen trees line the highway, their leaves a blaze of gold against the deep blue.
Everything feels big here. Nothing like Moscow’s heavy stone or New York’s constant steel and glass or Seattle’s soft gray haze.
“Pretty, right?” Scottie asks, glancing over at me.
“It’s beautiful,” I say honestly.
“Wait until you see the lake,” he says. “Whitefish Lake is one of the best-kept secrets in Montana. Actually, it’s not much of a secret anymore, but it is beautiful.”
He rolls the window down a bit, letting the crisp autumn air wash through the truck. There’s pine in it. Wood smoke from people’s chimneys.
“This is home,” he says, almost to himself.
The word sits heavy between us.
“Do you miss it?” I ask quietly. “Living here?”
