Probably, but I don’t answer.
“We’ll start simple. Full name, please.”
“It’s on the marriage license,” I blurt.
“Third rule of Marriage of Convenience Club?—”
“I’m not going to fight you, Everly.”
She pauses at the sound of her name as if surprised I remembered it. “Aren’t you already?”
I scrub my hand over my face. “Greyson Harris Adams.”
She writes it down. “Date of birth?”
“June seventeenth,” I add the year as an afterthought.
“That means you’ll be turning forty soon,” she says cheerfully.
I don’t want to think about celebrating without Bran—birthdays were our thing. The only thing that keeps me from going into the shadows is the upturn of Everly’s lips as if cheered by the idea of a birthday.
“What about you?”
“What about me what?” she asks as though confused.
“Name, date of birth, all that.”
“This doesn’t work both ways, Mr. Adams,” she says, reminding me of her position as coach and me as the client.
“Is that a rule?”
Wearing a slim smile, instead of answering, she grunts as if mimicking me, then continues down the line of questions.
After the interview, Everly slides a sheet of paper across the table outlining an itinerary for the week. “My phone number is on there if you have any questions or need me for any reason. We’ll be together most of the time, but if you’re in a situation that you’re not sure how to navigate, have to reply to an email and don’t know what to say, or need anything else, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”
Need her? Not likely.
Want her? No comment.
But I can’t have her. Never. Not even if we’re married.
However, I can’t help but worry that our secret is tempted to sneak out of its hiding place.
10
EVERLY
Day one is done and the Cookie Dough Diary sees a lot of ink as I rant about Greyson Harris Adams. When I set my pen down, the pages flutter and I spot the Viking I drew on the airplane. It’s hard to deny he shares an uncanny likeness with the man I drew earlier while asking Grey about himself.
At one point, our hands brushed and I still tingle all over. Inside and out. Top to bottom. Yes, even my lips, bringing the kissituation vibrantly, vividly to mind.
Strange getting to know your husband by interviewing him, asking about his statistics and hobbies.
Don’t even get me started about how grumpy, gruff, and grouchy he is. He could be holding a baby, surrounded by puppies, and eating ice cream and he’d still have a scowl on his face. I’m not sure who or what bit him on the butt, but I’m not his biggest fan, cheerleading his grumpiness.
Then again, he’s probably just mad that he got in trouble for #BruiserButt and is stuck here with me instead of doing whatever Viking raiders do during their time off.
Eat those grisly-looking turkey legs? Drink flagons of mead? Sharpen their axes?
