I follow Roman back into the kitchen, where two plates of pancakes sit on our kitchen table.
“Did you look in the living room?” he says, arms crossed.
I shake my head, feeling giddy. First the snow, and now?—
“A tree!” I stand in the kitchen doorway, jerking my gaze back to him. “Roman! When did you get this?”
The biggest, real-life Christmas tree I have ever witnessed is currently taking up fifty percent of Roman’s living room. Growing up, we always had an artificial tree—a tall, skinny tree for our Canadian home, and a six-foot, average-sized thing for our California home.
“I went out last night—while you were having your own adventure—and cut it down.”
“You cut it down?” And suddenly, this kitchen is a hotpot. I am picturing Roman on the cover of a Harlequin romance novel. Red-and-black plaid button-up, opened, with his broad chest on display. He’s got one foot on a large boulder and an ax over his shoulder, staring out at a wilderness full of pines. I swallow. And sweat. My mouth might be watering. Just a little.
I would pay money and give up my favorite ribbon tool to see that.
And then I check myself. I mentally slap that image and those thoughts from my mind.
This marriage is still a sham. Just because I’ve come clean about my citizenship doesn’t mean Roman’s decided to fall madly in love with me. Or that I want him to.
I tell myself that I do not want him to.
“Yeah.” He puffs out his cheeks, then exhales a slow breath. “I wanted to apologize.” Walking from the doorway to the table, he sits. “I’m sorry, Stella.”
I shake my head, skirting my eyes from Roman to the tree and back again. I plod to the table and sit across from him. “What are you sorry for? I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have told you the truth.”
“I should have talked to you before announcing an engagement. I shouldn’t have assumed.” His eyes plead with mine. I’m the one who should be apologizing, but he’s so desperately sorry. “Please know, I honestly didn’t think about this cabin when I announced our marriage. I just wanted to help you.”
I blow a raspberry through my lips. “Goofball. That proves that I owe you the apology.”
“But Stell. I didn’t even ask you. I just announced to the southwestern US minor league soccer fans that we were getting married. I didn’t consider what you wanted, onlywhat I thought you needed. I haven’t been a very good husband.”
My insides stir with his words, with his sincerity.
He keeps his eyes on mine. “And I’m sorry.”
A quivering breath whistles through my teeth, and my heart patters in my chest. Roman doesn’t hate me. And he isn’t forgiving me because an overprotective mama skunk forced him to. He forgave me before all that. He’d planned to apologize to me all along. He isn’t angry.
Even if he should be.
“I lied to you, Roman.”
“And in many ways, I was selfish and domineering. You’re all grown up, Stell. I should have asked if you wanted help before leaping in and forcing matrimony on you.”
I have never in my life been so strangely attracted by an apology. I gulp down my frenzied feelings. “Can we start over?”
“No matter how many times we begin, we’re still married. Unless?—”
I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “Maybe that arrangement can still benefit us.”
Roman passes me the maple syrup, and I slather my warm hot cakes.
“Okay,” I say, setting the syrup down. “What we need is a moment of reckoning.”
“Come again?”
“No more secrets.” I swallow, knowing this isn’t going to be as easy as I’m making it out to be. At least not for me. I’m not sure what I’m asking of Roman. “Tell me about this cabin. Why is it so important to you? Why not just stay in the team apartment complex?”
And possibly surprising us both, Roman opens hismouth and speaks. He tells me exactly why. Since we lost Brice, he prefers solitude. According to him, he needs it. He tried to get his coach to make an exception in his contract. Much like my parents’ visa extension—it was denied.
