After Brice died, my parents went through an excruciating time. I never wanted to make them go through that again. That was the plan. But I haven’t done a very good job. Everything I do worries my mother—until now.
In the twenty days I’ve been married to Roman, I have received half as many calls and texts from my parents. And rather than frantic messages and panicked questions, she’s asked if we’re coming home for Christmas. She’s asked about a summer wedding celebration for Roman and me. She’s asked if I’m happy.
Which is exactly why I can’t panic and lose it on my husband, who is truly just doing his best to keep us out of prison. Today, I will answer his green card questions. I will play along.
You could tell him prison isn’t an option TODAY and get rid of all that guilty anger …Shut up, invisible Willow. Are you trying to ruin everything?
When I’m sure that he won’t annul this marriage and lose his cabin, then I will tell him the truth.
“Time to play nice, Stella,”I say to myself. Slipping Brice’s photo back into the crevice of my book, I slide it beneath the bed. Then I leave my room, breathing in bacon and chanting to myself to be nice. My mouth waters and my stomach growls, telling the world that we are hungry.
“Good morning,” I say, entering the kitchen. Did I just speak with a slight British accent? I did. My brain is working very hard to not crash out, to not be a jerk. It decided that speaking like a Jane Austen character might accomplish both.
Roman’s brows lift. I scan away from that questioning look, only to stare at the athletic shorts hugging his hips and thighs. The man has some seriously strong legs. Tan and muscular, and not bad at all to look at.
I drag my eyes back up to his.
“Morning,” he says. “Hear me out—” Roman has no idea that I’m on a mission to play nice, despite the fact that the wordsgreenandcardsend me into a panic attack. He’s got a plan, and he’s not interested in wasting time. “Stella,” he says. “I’ve made an appointment for us.”
“An appointment?” I pick up one slice of crisp bacon from the plate he’s piling them on.
Roman’s eyes follow the piece from his plate to my mouth. He clears his throat, his Adam’s apple doing this up, then down motion that makes my skin prick with heat. His cheeks have gone pink. I try really hard to ignore the electricity making its way over my limbs.
“Yes,” he says, “a Zoom appointment with a marriage counselor.”
The heat and electricity surge, leaving me scalded. “A counselor?” I drop the rest of my bacon onto the counter. “That’s not funny, Roman.”
“I’m not joking. Our first session is this afternoon.”
And I had such high hopes to be nice to my husband today. “No, it isn’t.”
But Roman only looks at me like he’s the teacher and I’m the student. “Yes. It is.”
“We are not seeing a marriage counselor!” I bark, and not in a nice way. Dang it, all my Roman goals for the day are in the trash can.
“We are.” He sets his spatula down and turns off the burner on the still-raw bacon in his pan. “Stell, we need this. Lucca says it’ll help with the green card process.”
“Roman,” I cry. “Are you kidding?”
He shakes his head, his arms crossed.
I grit my teeth and stare at the stupidly handsome man in front of me. “We are not doing that!”
“Give me one reason why not.”
“I’ll give you five!” I shout. Suddenly, I am not blinking. My eyes are crazed, and they refuse to shut. I couldn’t blink if I tried.
Roman stands over me like a tall tower, waiting for my reasons, but I’m not letting him win.
“One!” I yell, holding out a finger. “We haven’t even been married a month!”
“This is going to help us.”
“Two!” I bark, flicking up one more finger. “Our marriage isn’t real. No counseling necessary. Three! People in love and struggling need marriage counselors. Not us!”Before he can protest, I shove four fingers into his chest. “Four! I’m not putting on real clothes today, and everyone knows you can’t see a counselor in PJs!” I swallow. “And five, this will not get me a green card!”
“Our appointment is at noon, and if you aren’t out here in real clothes, I’m coming in to get you. I’ll dress you myself if I have to.”
I snatch up the plate of bacon—all one dozen crispy slices—and stalk off toward the exit. “You wouldn’t dare.”
