He gets out, straightening his shirt as he moves around the front of the vehicle. A woman nearly trips over her own feet as she ogles him walking by her. It’s wholly satisfying that he doesn’t even glance her way.
“My lady,” he says, opening my door. He offers me a hand, which I promptly take if for no other reason than to remind the women milling about the park that this man is mine.Who knew pretending could be so fun?“I need to grab something from the bed. Hang on just a sec.”
I watch as he fiddles around in the back of his truck, admiring the way his biceps fill out the black fabric of his long-sleeved T-shirt.
“There we go.” He extracts a picnic basket and blanket and then shuts the tailgate. “Ready?”
I lift a brow, grinning. “A picnic? I thought we were just here for music.”
“Well, you thought wrong.” He grins back and stops inches in front of me. His scent is warm and addictive—less like cologne, and more like temptation wrapped in enough safety to make me reckless, if I’m not careful. “People are watching, so we should probably hold hands.”
My eyes grow wide for a split second, but I’m quick to catch myself. “Of course.”
His palm slips against mine, and our fingers lace together. His skin is calloused and hard against my overly moisturized hands. The contact sends shock waves barreling through my body, ending at my toes. Holding his hand was always one of my favorite things. The way his fingers fold across mine and gently press into my skin? I’ve never felt more protected than when I’m connected to him in this way.
Hartley leads me to the center of the park where the band is warming up. Children run carefree, playing tag and hide-and-go-seek. Adults sit on blankets and in lawn chairs with coolers and red wagons by their side. We collect twelve congratulations before we find an open, fairly private spot near the edge of the grass.
“Are you doing okay?” Hartley asks, taking his hand from mine. Instantly, I miss the contact. “Can you hold the basket?”
“Sure.” I take it so he can spread the blanket on the ground. It’s cream colored with faint yellow knots in the center of each square. “This is so pretty.”
“I’ve had it forever,” he says, taking the basket and placing it on the blanket. “I think it might’ve been Cathy’s.”
We sit next to each other as the band starts playing.
“I love that Cathy and Bobby still work for you,” I say, tossing my hair over my shoulder.
“They’re like family.”
He stretches his long legs out in front of him while looking over his shoulder at me. Without a hat casting shadows across his face, his eyes are brighter. Gold flecks kiss the deep brown irises like someone spilled glitter in them. They’re beautiful.
“I had a long talk with Cathy today,” he says, the corner of his lips lifting.
“Oh, really? What about?”
“About what happens after the wedding.”
My brows furrow as I look up at him. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, you see, I’ve never had a woman around before—certainly not living with me. And she wanted to know what you, as the woman of the house, wanted from her.”
Me? Woman of the house?
I force a swallow and switch my attention to the band. It’s a small group, and I don’t know a lot about music, but it sounds pretty good. And the people around us seem to be enjoying themselves, too. It’s easy to tell when you can see their smiles … because they’re looking straight at you.
Oof.
“I don’t know what to say to that,” I say, turning back to Hartley.
“She doesn’t want to step on your toes, that’s all.”
“I appreciate that, but I don’t want to come in and change how you run your home. I’m sure however you do it now is fine.”
His eyes soften, but a shield is up. “It’ll be your home, too. At least for the next twelve months.”
“Which is why I don’t want to get in the way,” I say carefully.
He nods, taking a breath, before he opens the picnic basket.
