And that’s been the one part of everything that happened yesterday I can’t move on from.
I brace for an outburst: shrieking, words, anything. But only silence follows. After a long stretch of it, I open one eye. Then the other.
Abby stares back open-mouthed. “Extrarooms?”
“Yes?” I frown. “And?”
“Phoebe would have her own room, on a Christmas tree farm, surrounded by a family.”
A room she could make her own, instead of worrying about holes to patch if she hangs something or whether there’s mold behind the drywall.
“I know,” I whisper.
I’ve been trying to give her a steady world with shaky hands. No matter where we go, she’ll be safe, but only this decision—accepting Aiden’s offer—would give her a space entirely her own.
“This is literally the stability you’ve been looking for. And it’s not like Aiden’s a stranger—you dated him.”
Exactly.Exactly.
I’ve already gotten a sneak peek at every day with Aiden in unexpected ways: budget decisions, washing dishes, and Christmas traditions with Phoebe. I don’t know if I can handle seeingtwotoothbrushes in the bathroom side by side, or his boots haphazardly lying on the floor.
It’s not most people’s idea of romance, but it’s mine. It’s two lives in tandem, checking in with each other and carrying a mutual load. It’s an intimacy I’ve never really had, and I want it like most women want flowers and jewelry.
I’m almost desperate for it.
Abby and I aren’t exactly in the same ballpark.
“I can’t believe you’re, sort of, giving me marriage and parenting advice.”
“I’m going to ignore that comment. Let’s circle back to the ‘fake marriage’ part.”
“The short version is that his dad’s will says he has to be married to get the rest of his inheritance. He gets money to pay off back taxes, and I can breathe financially after,” I pause, motioning around me, “this.”
“That never works, Chloe.” She shakes her head like she’s an authority on the subject. Though, considering she might have missed her calling as a professional reader, she might be. “They always fall for each other by the end. Even without the long version, I can tell you you’re either ending up heartbroken or married for real. Can I place my bet now? I want money on ‘married for real’.”
“Abby,” I groan, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around me. There’s a lot left to do before I pick up Phoebe this afternoon from school. “You really need something better to do with your free time.”
“You’re right.” She nods solemnly before flashing a wide grin. “So, can I plan it?”
“The wedding? We just need a ceremony and a signed document, right? There’s nothing to plan. A courthouse wedding will be just fine.”
“Over my dead body!” Abby screeches, scrambling to her feet. Great. We’re back in over-excited territory. She reminds me of a golden retriever who just heard the wordball. “You will do no such thing. No, ma’am.”
“We’re both doing this for money reasons, Abby. This isn’t a real wedding.” I shake my head.
Although I don’t know why I’m bothering. I know better than to argue with my romance-obsessed best friend.
“I told you, my money is on ‘married for real’, so this is probably youronlywedding. You might as well accept that I’m not letting this go. What if we call Harper? She can pull something together super fast, right? She’s crazy talented.” Abby already has her phone out and is typing furiously.
“Harper is probably insanely busy—it’s Thanksgiving week. Leave her alone.” I unfold my legs and scoot to the edge of my couch. “Besides, I haven’t said yes, and there isn’t even a date. Aiden and I haven’t ironed any of this out, Abby. You’re wasting your time.”
Though part of me is intrigued by what Harper Evans could pull off for this. She owns a cute little hybrid flower café on the outskirts of downtown Storywood Ridge called Buttercup & Bloom Café.
We met through events I photographed, and her arrangements pop up all over Colorado. We occasionally sit for coffee and swap vendor stories. Every time I shoot one of her bridal bouquets, I wish I didn’t have two black thumbs.
Abby holds up a hand to signal silence, a Cheshire grin spreading from ear to ear. “Minor detail. Hi, Harper? It’s ChloeBrooks’s friend, Abby. Do you have a minute?” Without waiting for a response, she ducks into another room and shuts the door behind her to take the call.
“Don’t you dare book anything!” I shout after her. “Possibilities, Abby—that’s it!”
