Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Focus on the present.
I wander out of the kitchen, feeling Asher’s gaze on me. It’s subtle, like he’s watching me from the corner of his eye as I move through the house. Maybe he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. I pretend not to notice, walking toward the living room where I stop in front of another frame he must have placed here last night. It’s me, tossing my graduation cap in the air, celebrating my studio arts degree. This one makes sense. I remember him taking it.
But as I keep wandering, I find other shots—me huddled in mountains of jackets while in our room at the ice hotel and a shot of me in the tree tent, reading a book in the sleeping bag. I’m not saying I should remember every photo taken of me, but these? I don’t remember them at all. Does Asher make a habit of snapping candids of me?
It’s like finding out a friend speaks another language and you never knew. Has photography always been his secret language and I never noticed?
I’d better find out, especially since the TV crew will be here later today. I definitely should know these things about my husband.
I march back into the kitchen, setting my hands on the counter. “Photography’s a hobby of yours?” I ask, but before he can respond, the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg hits me. Does he put those spices in his coffee? Because I hate to break it to him, but even yummy spices won’t make mud taste better.
He looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Why are you asking?”
“I figured it’s something I should know before the crew arrives. Like…it’s a hobby of yours, right? Like the Lego plants?” I gesture vaguely. “I mean, you have all these pictures, so…”
His shoulders bunch up as he fiddles with a lever on the machine. He looks…tight. Like he could use a massage. My fingers itch to touch him, to rub the tension out. I’m good with my hands. They’re strong. I could help. I want to help. I take a few steps toward him, already imagining my hands on his shoulders—but then I stop myself. Would that be too much? Too emotional? Too interested? Too clingy?
Fuck you, Gideon.
I drop my hands.
“It’s not a hobby,” he says, and I shake my head, feeling even more confused. What’s happening here? Why do I feel like I’m missing something? I shouldn’t press—he might think I’m trying too hard. Or that I’m not respecting our marriage-of-convenience boundaries.
“Well, you’re good at it,” I say, cheery, since that’s nice. I can be nice without being too much. “Did you see the wedding pictures I put up?”
“I did. Last night,” he says, cool and in control. “That was smart of you.”
Smart. Because this is a sham marriage. The unspoken question lingers longer in the air: Was last night a mistake, then?
Asher turns away from the gleaming espresso machine and hands me a mug. It’s my favorite one. The one that says, “I’m a Fucking Ray of Sunshine.”
I blink down at the chai latte he’s offering me, my eyes widening. “You…you made me a chai latte?” I ask, amazed. I had no idea he had barista skills.
He shrugs again, this time with a hint of a smile. “Well, my wife really likes them. Isn’t that something a husband ought to do?”
The warmth of the mug seeps into my hands and under my skin. Asher learned how to make a chai latte for me. If I’d done that for him, Gideon would have said it was too much. But I love the too-much-ness of this.
Something shifts inside me. There’s so much I want to say—that I love the way he’s noticed these things about me, that I love how he touches me, that I love the way he thought to take photos of me when I wasn’t looking, like I’m someone worth capturing.
But I can’t. I won’t ruin this temporary thing with too many feelings. Instead, I take a sip and sigh happily. “It’s the best I’ve ever had.”
“Yeah, right,” he says dryly.
“It is,” I insist.
“Thanks.”
For a moment, the tension loosens, and for the first time today, it feels like we’re both being wholly honest—even if it’s just about a drink.
I hold the mug a little tighter. “Asher, the photos are great,” I say, meaning it. But there’s so much more left unsaid as I drink the rest of it while he downs his coffee.
“I should get ready. They’ll be here soon,” I say, looking toward the door when my gaze catches on a new reflection. Curious, I make my way over.
My heart climbs into my throat. He hung my new mirror. The one I set on the plant table the other night since I didn’t want to be presumptuous. And he hung it exactly where I had imagined it would go. “Asher,” I say quietly, more emotion in my words than I’d expected, but I am so damn touched. I try to clear it away, raising my voice as I turn toward the kitchen. “You hung the mirror.”