"You'll see when we land."
"Trigger.” Her tone is a warning. "I agreed to marry you. I didn't agree to be kidnapped."
"Legally, I don't think it counts as kidnapping when it's your husband." I reach for my coffee. I should sleep, but I can't shut off my brain. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that last night fucking happened.
She looks furious and rumpled and entirely out of her element. It's a nice change from her usual immaculate control.
"Keeping me in the dark wasn't part of the plan. I didn't agree to this." She unbuckles her seatbelt, and I can see the moment she harnesses her anger and starts calculating. "Appearances matter, Trigger. If you want this marriage to win over your partners, it needs to look real, and this might be news to you, but couples talk. They share things. If I show up on your arm completely unaware, they'll know it's fake."
I know she's right, and I do plan to fill her in, but letting her in on my future business plans requires trust. She took a big first step last night, not once but twice. First, when she agreed to marry me on the spot. The second, and maybe even bigger move,was when she chose me over her father. But I don't want blind trust, and I don't want momentary trust, the kind that fails when things truly get hard. I want unconditional.
"Share things," I muse over the rim of my coffee.
"Yes, things. Information. Plans. The basic building blocks of a functional partnership." She's fully awake now. "Unless you'd prefer I smile blankly when your business associates ask about our life, our future?"
Our future.I like those words coming from her mouth. Those are the ones I'd like to discuss in detail, but since we're on the topic of sharing things, there is something that has been needling me since the words were uttered. Something I haven't been able to piece together.
"What did you mean last night when you told your father a cracked screen wasn't enough to change your plans?"
"Nothing." She averts her gaze out the window, which may have been borderline convincing were it not for her hands.
"Right, so you're cutting the circulation off in your fingers for nothing," I say as I watch them turn whiter by the second, which is a feat in itself, given her warm complexion. "Sharing works both ways, sweetheart."
She closes her eyes and presses her head into the seat. "Fine. I guess if anyone should know what those words mean, it's you." Her voice comes out quiet, almost detached, as she stares out the window.
I set down my empty coffee cup, the ceramic clicking against the wood console.
She's silent for a moment, her jaw working like she's trying to decide how much to tell me. When she finally speaks, she still won't look at me. "My father's accident, the one he was in the night of our senior prom… When he finally woke from his coma, the doctors asked him if he remembered any details from the night of his crash. His statement was he swerved to miss adeer crossing the road and lost control on the wet pavement..." She pauses, and I watch her fingers find the edge of the blanket, twisting the fabric between them before continuing. "But I know differently. I know because when the paramedics brought me his belongings that night, his cracked phone was among his things, and the picture on the screen was a photo of the student council prom committee."
My hand freezes halfway to the water glass on the console between us.
"You already know you are part of the reason I was sent away to begin with. They didn't want me going back to public school after I fell. I wasn't safe there.” She finally turns to look at me, and I can see everything she's kept buried in those dark eyes. "He saw that photo, and it caused him to run off the road."
I shift to face her fully. "Are you saying he didn't know I was attending Ridgewood?"
"I never brought it up." She holds my gaze, unflinching, letting me see the truth. The question is what truth? I'm not sure why she never mentioned it to her father. I sure as hell know it wasn't for her undying love for me. She enjoyed having fun at my expense most days.
"Why?" I lean forward, elbows on my knees, needing more.
If she had brought it up, I'm sure it would have gotten her out of there. She wanted to go home. She never hid that fact. If I were the reason she was sent away, surely my presence at Ridgewood would have been enough for Warrick to bring her home.
"I answered your question." Her voice is steadier now. "Now it's time you answer some of mine, starting with where we are going."
I sink back into my seat and cross my leg over my knee at the ankle. "Somewhere warm."
She rolls her eyes, a trademark sign of her annoyance, one that's grown on me because even if she's thoroughly peeved with me, I'm still the one on her mind. It's still me making her feel something.
"More specific."
"Why are you so worried about it anyway?" I press, loving how easy it is to get her worked up.
"It would help to know if I packed the right wardrobe. You only gave me ten minutes."
"I said to pack something nice." I shrug, reaching for my water.
"You're such a man. You probably packed jeans, boots, and a few polos and called it a day. It doesn't work the same for women." She shifts in her seat, and sunlight breaks through the clouds just then, flooding the cabin with harsh light that catches the gold band on her left hand.
"You think I care what you wear?" I quirk a brow. "If you're asking, I'd prefer you wear?—"
