“Every day,” he says. No hesitation. “But Seattle’s good. The team’s good.” His fingers tap once against the wheel, thoughtfully. “And now I’ve got you, so…”
He trails off like he’s said too much, eyes fixed on the road.
I feel the sensation of butterflies in my stomach again, the slight kick up of my pulse.
Now I’ve got you.Almost echoes back on repeat in my ears.
Like I’m not a temporary solution. Like I’m not a ticking clock. Like, there isn’t an expiration date stamped somewhere on this marriage that only I can see.
I turn my face toward the window, watching the trees blur past.
And I have to remember that… even if he doesn’t. Even if he keeps looking at me like we’re building something instead of borrowing time.
Because the girls at the game night weren’t wrong. Scottie was built to be someone’s husband.
He was made for Sunday breakfasts and loud kitchens and kids running across hardwood floors with sticky fingers. He was created for a family who adore him, a town that claims him, a life that fits around him like a hand to a glove.
And I can already see how easily he fits here. Whether he realizes it or not, the sourdough-baking kindergarten teacher is probably a better match for his life than I ever will be.
Not the cold Russian ballerina with zero cooking abilities and social instincts shaped entirely by tutors and etiquette instructors and the quiet, suffocating expectations of my grandmother’s finishing schools.
I’m more comfortable navigating a room full of wealthy aristocrats than a warm Montana home filled with laughter and genuine affection.
And the terrible truth is… I’m starting to wish that weren’t true. That I could be the woman who makes sourdough from scratch and chases around barefoot toddlers through a house that we share. Which feels a little crazy since I’ve never considered that kind of life before.
Scottie’s family home is exactly what I expected and somehow more. A sprawling ranch-style house with a wide wraparound porch, a front yard big enough to land a helicopter, and what looks like half the town gathered on the lawn.
“Oh, God,” Scottie mutters, pulling the truck into the gravel drive. “She invited everyone.”
“Everyone?” I repeat, staring at the crowd.
“Aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, probably the mailman… yeah. Everyone.” He cuts the engine and looks over at me, his expression softening. “You ready for this?”
“No,” I say honestly.
His mouth curves. “Good. Me neither. Just hold my hand and squeeze if you get nervous. I’ll fake an upset stomach, and we’ll get out of here, okay?” He leans over and brushes a quick kiss against my forehead as if it were the most normal thing on earth. “How was that… was that okay?”
I blink for a second. It was more than okay, and I want to ask him to do it again, but I don’t. “Sure, but what was that for?”
“Practice… and to make sure you’re okay with affection because the Eastons are very affectionate, and if I don’t show it towards you often, they’ll think something up.”
I like the idea of him showing affection. I’ll be honest; ever since my mother passed, I don’t show physical or emotional levels of affection all that much.
“I can handle it.”
He gives one of those grins of his that lights up my heart like a Christmas tree, and then he pats my hand and opens his door. He gets out and comes around the car to open my door for me. “Let’s go, Mrs. Easton,” he says and then offers out his hand.
The second my feet hit the ground, chaos erupts.
Children swarm out of nowhere, shrieking “Uncle Scottie” before latching onto his legs. A massive dog the size of a small horse barrels toward us, tongue lolling, eyes bright.
I have exactly half a second to brace before the dog launches at me.
Strong hands catch me around the waist and yank me back just in time.
“Moose, down,” Scottie orders, laughing as the dog skids on the gravel. “Buddy, we talked about personal space.”
Moose ignores him and leans happily into my legs, tail thumping.
