“No.” I’d loosened my grip a bit, but now I curl my fingers tighter around the mug again. “You can’t lose this place, Aiden. It’s too precious.”
His eyes turn glassy, and my throat tightens. He deserves a second chance, not just with me, but with this place.
His future.
No matter what happened between us, I’m honored to be part of that.
“You said you had conditions,” he rasps.
“I do.”
But I know he’ll agree to them somehow. I could probably give him a list that includes chocolate in the fridge for emergencies, and it would appear tomorrow.
Thankfully, I’m not ridiculous.
“Want to sit?” He gestures to the living room.
Probably safer for my shaky legs. I sink into the worn leather and immediately want to nap. Cozy doesn’t begin to cover it.
He clears his throat, then lifts his chin. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“We agree this marriage is strictly a business deal and that’s it.”
Surprise flickers across his face, but it’s gone fast. I’m about seventy-five percent sure that I know this is a bunch of hooey, but saying it makes me feel like I’m protecting Phoebe. And me. So I’m running with it.
Even if it tastes like a lie.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Coming in strong. What else?”
“I have to keep some sessions, Aiden. I built my photography business from the ground up. I know this ‘arrangement’ will help financially,” I swallow, “but I still need to work. I can let some go, but?—”
“Owen and I have already been working on it.” He nods. “I’m sorry for not having a plan last night, but I got carried away in the moment.” His mouth hitches up on the side, a crooked grin that feels a little more level than before.
“Oh.”
“We can walk the farm after, but I’ve got ideas for indoor sessions on bad-weather days. Scheduling might be tight, but you can also shoot in the trees anytime we’re closed to the public. Or maybe we can rope off a section for you to use so you aren’t so constrained.”
My jaw drops. “You’d let me shoot here?”
Sessions on an actual tree farm are a dream come true.
“We don’t allow outside photographers, as a rule. I’m a stickler for leave-no-trace. We tried it a few years ago—my parents’ insistence—and I got tired of cleaning up confetti. One bad apple ruins it.” His posture tightens as he talks, his fists clenching and unclenching. I understand because that makes me angry, too. “But I know you’d respect the farm. Plus, since you’re my wife, I figure I can bend the rules for you.”
My wife.
It’s not the first time he’s said them, but as we sit on the fringe of this new arrangement, his words slide over me. My heart drops into my toes, and I have to look away for a minute to hide what those words do to me.
“Will be,” I stammer. “Might beyour wife.”
He flushes. “Right. Sorry. What else?”
I almost don’t want to keep going. He’s more prepared than I expected. “We stop and consider Phoebe in every big decision. I’m already uprooting her. Living on a tree farm will cushion it, but?—”
“You’re her mom, and you want the best for her. Understood.” He nods, some tension easing. “Anything else?”
“Just one more.” I swallow, because this one will be a doozy. “You’re not allowed to hide from Christmas. Within reason, of course.”
“Nobody said I’m hiding from Christmas,” he starts, scooting forward, shaking his head. “Wait, just a minute.”
