by BJ Harvey
I’m still none the wiser as to my husband’s motives. All I know is we left City Hall yesterday with a signed marriage license, rings on our fingers, and Bryant telling my brother to bring me and my stuff to the house this afternoon.
We didn’t even spend our wedding night in the same part of the city. I know it seems strange to care about something like that, but it just seems so wrong. Was I disappointed? Sure. But I’m also not going to push Bry too far, too soon. I’m still not even sure whether it was stubborn pride pushing him to see the marriage ceremony through. One of the things both Bry and I have in common is our stubborn streak.
Ez slows the truck and flicks on his blinker before turning into the driveway of the worst house I’ve ever seen. I’m talking Dorothy’s house after it survived the tornado and landed in Oz. I half expect to see the Wicked Witch’s legs sticking out from underneath it.
Ez turns off the engine as I lean forward and stare at what’s apparently my new home for the foreseeable future. What have you agreed to, Faith?
“Quite a project, right?” Ez murmurs quietly.
I turn toward him, my eyes bugging out at his massive understatement.
“You didn’t think it might be pertinent to mention that I was moving into a pile of sticks?”
“I figured the surprise would do you good considering you shocked all of us with a shotgun wedding, minus the baby,” he says, his lips twitching. My brows jump sky high.
“Crazy as it may seem to everyone else, Ez, when offered a sliver of a chance by the only man you’ve ever loved—maybe ever will love—you take it, however insane, out of the blue, and incomprehensible it may be,” I snap.
His face falls, all amusement slipping from his expression as he reaches over and covers my hand with his own. “Bakes, I’m sorry. You’ve just gotta understand where we are all coming from with this. We love you, and we love him, and there was a time when we thought this was always going to happen. But after twelve years and seeing him finally get on with his life—”
“You mean, moving on from me.”
“No, because that man never has. The name Bryant Cook was never said without Faith Baker being attached, and I don’t think that’s something a man like Bry ever gets past. You both had your lives planned out.”
“Ever think that was why I had to run away?” The words are out before I can stop them.
Ezra’s fingers flex against mine, squeezing my hand. He looks like I’ve struck him across the face with a wet fish.
My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, and I choose the latter, brushing off my secret admission, and jumping out of the car like my ass is on fire.
“Faith!” Ez calls just as I shut the truck door, gulping in fresh air and avoiding looking at my new home.
This is too much for me to deal with right now. Ever since I stepped off the plane on Thursday, I’ve been dealing with concerned looks, frustrated glances, and worried gazes from my parents and siblings. Even Abi Cook—my former best friend—tried to corner me at the wedding, warning me not to even think about going through with Bryant’s ‘asinine’ plan.
With a fair few drinks under my belt, I was about to snap at her before her tall-drink-of-water husband stepped in and swept her away, shooting me a backward glance that was a mix between concern, intrigue, and amusement.
Suffice to say, my lingering jet lag and own concerns about the situation I now find myself in—mostly how I’ll survive and a) not throttle my husband, b) create a new life for myself here in Chicago either with or without my new husband helping me achieve that, and finally c) not let myself completely fall apart if this crazy plan of his ends with the dreaded D-word: divorce.
“Faith, hold up,” Ez says, slamming the door and coming to help me with the tailgate that I can’t seem to open. I blink rapidly to stop my threatening tears from taking hold. He cups my shoulder and lifts my dipped chin with his index finger. His soft eyes are almost my undoing.
“Please don’t make me cry, Ez. Not now and definitely not here.”
His gaze roams my face, his jaw clenching before he nods and lets me go. “I’ll just say this. You’re a force in your own right, Bakes, and everyone knows that. You have had a determination to walk your own path, your own way since the second you stood on those two giant feet of yours.”
“Hey,” I say with a laugh, shoving his arm. “They’re not that big.”
He smirks, and I know then that all is good in my world—for this moment anyway. “Whatever happens, whatever you two have to process and work your way through, I’m here for you. Okay?”
“Thanks, Ez.”
“And if you end up needing to hide the body at the end of it, just call me.” He tilts his head and arches a brow in amusement. “I know you, and I know Bry. There’s gonna be a lot of fun along the way before we get to the happy ever after part.”
“Fun?”
“Oh, mostly for the rest of us—probably not for you two. Renovating and getting to know each other all over again? All while pushing each other’s buttons and seeing who’ll be the first to break? Let’s just say that Jax might’ve suggested we take out shares in a popcorn manufacturer.”
I shove him again, a little harder this time, but laughing while I do it. “Asshole.”
“You didn’t dispute it though,” he says, still chuckling.
“I promise, I’ll jump ship and give up if it gets even close to the stage where you might need to help with a body.”
“Care to shake on that?” He holds his arm out in my direction, squeezing my fingers when I slide my palm against his and shake his hand. My eyes widen when he doesn’t let go straight away. “You protect that soft spot of yours, Bakes, and I’ll always be a phone call or text message away.”
“Dammit, Ez. Don’t make me cry. He’ll see it as a sign of weakness,” I say with a slow-growing grin.
He lets me go with a wink. “We can’t have that now, can we? Go inside and get yourself settled. I’ll bring in your bags.”
I turn toward the stepping stones leading up to the porch and stop mid-step at the mouthwatering sight of Bryant Cook—my husband—filling the open doorway. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since yesterday when we said our vows in front of a judge.
“Welcome home, wife,” he says. He leans against the wooden frame, his presence almost as overwhelming as his physicality, especially when he’s wearing low-riding jeans on his strong, square hips, and a Def Leppard T-shirt we got at a concert we snuck out to in our senior year. A smirk curves one side of his mouth, his gaze raking me over from head to toe like it’s his God-given right to do so. It’s impossible not to lock my knees and clench my thighs together at the mischief I see in his gaze especially since it’s always been one of my most favorite—and private—sides to him.
When our eyes finally meet, there’s a spark of something unreadable in his—part amusement, part surprise, part annoyance maybe—and as quickly as the moment happened, it’s gone. Bryant moves his attention to my big brother who lumbers past me with a heavy suitcase in each hand, sweat gathering on his brow.
“Hey brother,” Bryant says with a grin.
“You do know that’s not exactly a new name for me.”
“No, but it’s definitely more real now,” Bry says. He steps out of the way when my brother reaches the door, grabbing one of my bags from him and murmuring something I cannot hear. God, I wish I could lip read.
Ez’s eyes snap to Bryant’s, and they stare at each other for a moment before my brother nods and disappears down a dark corridor leading deeper into the house.
Bry steps out onto the porch, the two of us now alone. “I’ll grab the rest of your things. I’ve set up a room for you and told Ez to put your bags in there.”
My eyes go wide as saucers. His thoughtfulness isn’t out of character, but given our current ‘situation’ it is a surprise. His lips quirk up, and for a second, I get a glimpse of that boyish charm he always used when trying to get in my pants. As if realizing he’s
doing it, he quickly schools himself, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Ah, yeah, so I’ll just go get those bags and let you get settled.”
“Running away so soon, Bry?” I blurt out. His step falters. He’s not as unflappable as he wants to appear to be.
He turns and paints on a panty-melting smile that is as fake as the two front veneers he got his senior year thanks to an unfortunate first blow-job incident in his parents’ back shed.
“Oh no, babycakes. Definitely not. I’m in for the long haul—always have been. I’m the one waiting for you to realize just what you’ve agreed to, especially since it’s the very thing you ran away from twelve years ago. Maybe you’ve forgotten that fact, but I have not.”
And just like that, all words escape me.
Then again, I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Because there’s one thing Bryant Cook didn’t remember when saying I do, something I told him back when I was an infatuated thirteen-year-old trying to work out how to get my best friend to make a move.
“Do you believe in true love, Bry?”
“Like ‘to death do us part’ and all that?”
“Yeah.”
“I s’pose. I mean, Mom and Dad have been married for over half their lives already. They’re happy.”
“Did you know that swans mate for life?”
He looks up, his eyes widening. “Like, forever?”
“Yeah. I just read it in this book.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
“When I get married, that’s going to be me.”
“You’ve got a few years before you’ve gotta worry ’bout that, Faith.”
“I know. But I thought it was important, you know.”
“Know what?”
“That I’m only ever going to get married once. My husband will know that I mean it. He’ll be the only man I’ll ever love from that day forward.”
“Have you been reading your mom’s kissing books again?”
“Nah. Just thought you should know.”
He nods and returns to his paperback.
After a few minutes of silence, I speak again. “Will you remember, Bry?”
He looks up from his book and meets my eyes, the two of us staring for what seems like forever—to a thirteen-year-old girl in love with her best friend, anyway.
He reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Yeah, Faith. I’ll remember, and if I don’t, promise me you’ll remind me. Okay?”
“Yeah, Bry. I’ll remind you.”
Now is not the time to do that, but sometime soon, you can bet your ass I’ll be keeping that promise.
It’s my trump card. I’ve just got to wait until it’s the right time to use it.
Besides, I’ve waited twelve years. What’s a little while longer?
Bryant
Since Jamie and April are on their honeymoon, Jax and I are leading the charge on the new project. I still have the duplex I bought five years ago, but living in this house while I do it up kills two birds with one stone.
Firstly, I can rent out my place and have someone else pay my mortgage while I live for free. Secondly, I’m on-site every day, I can do extra work on the weekends, and Faith can help me whenever she’s not working. That’s if she has a job.
We haven’t exactly spoken since Ezra left. We moved all of her suitcases and boxes into the guest room, and I chose to leave her alone for a while to process the last twenty-four hours.
The look on her face when she saw this house for the first time was worth not telling her beforehand. As she walked through the rooms, her expression morphed from horror, to fear and occasionally concern—probably for her safety—and all of the looks on her face were equally amusing.
Now I’m sitting in a chair on the back porch, my feet propped up on the railing, with a bottle of beer in my hand and a slowly darkening sky before me.
My plan has and will never be to torture or punish Faith. None of this was ever about that. However, it doesn’t stop me from finding the situation amusing, bordering on comical.
Who sees their childhood love—their only love—for the first time after she rejected his marriage proposal twelve years earlier, and proposes again to call her bluff about wanting him back? Maybe I need my head read. There is a plan, though. It may be stupid, but it’s necessary to end this once and for all.
For all my pandering, I do want to show Faith what our life could’ve—would have—been like if she’d stayed… if she’d said yes. Even if she’d said no, I would’ve waited.
Hell, apparently I waited anyway. I don’t think there’s a thing that woman could do that would ever make me stop loving her. Maybe that makes me the puppet and her the puppeteer; she just doesn’t know she still holds the strings.
“Bryant!” Faith shouts. My body goes still; then, I jerk into action. I drop my bottle to the ground. I rip the door open and race to her room.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, hanging off the side of her doorway when I reach her.
Her face is pale, her eyes snapping to mine as soon as I enter the room. She’s standing on top of the bed—more like cowering, really. Her finger points to the floor on the far side of the bed.
“There… there’s a…” She’s near-on shaking her bottom lip trembling.
“What, Faith?”
“There’s a spider under the bed,” she says, shaking her head from side to side, her hands covering her face. “And it had babies!”
I freeze, unable to comprehend what I’m seeing.
“Faith, how on earth can you still be scared of bugs?”
“You don’t know what bugs are until you’ve lived in Australia, especially spiders.”
“You’re a biologist,” I say, remembering how she hated to be put in a ‘specific scientific box.’
“Zoologist actually. Which is a lot different than those bug people who study things like—you know—big-ass spiders, Bryant Cook.”
“Are you full-naming me, Faith Baker?”
“You bet your ass I am, and I’ll keep doing it till you remove said spider and all its spider babies from my room.” She’s shriek-shouting by the end of her demand, and it’s cute as hell.
I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms over my chest. “So no future as an arachnologist?”
“Bry…” she hisses. “I’m begging you.”
“Say please then.”
“What?”
“Please. It’s usually followed by a thank you when the person completes the task you’ve asked them to do. It’s Manners 101. I know Mrs. Baker taught you all about that.”
“He brings my mom into it,” she mutters dryly, looking to the ceiling as if seeking answers—or a weapon to throw at me. Her eyes plead with mine. “Please, Bryant. Torture me with anything else but not bugs.”
I sigh, fighting—and failing—to stop a small triumphant grin making its home on my face.
“Smug much?” she mutters as I round the bed and drop to my hands and knees. “What are you doing?”
I crane my neck to look up at her from the floor. “I’m trying out a new yoga position. What the hell do you think I’m doing? I’m looking for the spider mama and her babies.”
“Like that?”
I sit up on my calves and look at her, dumbfounded. She’s always had a fear of spiders, but this is bordering on ridiculous. I arch a brow. “Got a spare hazmat suit lying around?”
“No need to get snippy.”
My lips twitch. “Never been called snippy before.”
“Never thought I’d need to say the word,” she retorts with a half-smile.
“What exactly does being snippy entail?”
She puts her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes. “Are we really standing here arguing about your behavior?”
“Well if you’d stop, then I could get on with ridding your room of all the creepy crawlies you hate.”
Her face falls. “You think there’s more than this?”
Ah, shit. This is not good. “No. I mean—”
I stand and open my arms, holding my breath as she looks at my hands then back to my face a few times before slowly moving forward and letting me comfort her. When she bends down and lays her head on my shoulder, a warm feeling settles in my heart.
“You probably think I’m a big baby,” she mumbles against my T-shirt. I smile, rubbing her back and cupping her head, keeping her close, enjoying this far more than I thought I would so soon. I swear this woman has superpowers when it comes to me.
“Can we fumigate the house?” she asks, her soft voice full of hope.
Without answering her, I tighten my arms around her waist and pull her off the bed. “Hold on, babycakes.”
She lets out a squeak as I carry her across the room. Her legs circle around my hips, and her arms strangle me as they tighten around my neck.
Once we’re in the hallway, I gently lower her to the ground, her fingers gripping my shoulders as she tips her wide eyes up to mine. Where I expect to find a spark of anger, there’s soft heat that I’m not prepared to see. She’s still standing close, her chest brushing mine. Her tongue darts out and traces along her bottom lip, and I can’t tear my gaze away.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“Can’t have you being scared of your own room.”
Something about what I said snaps her out of her daze, and she quickly takes a step back. “Thank you. I might order a cab and go to the grocery store.”
My brows bunch together into a confused frown. “Have you forgotten how to drive?”
Her head jerks back, and I see a glimpse of the spunky woman who always let shit fly with me. Used to, anyway.
“Australia does have cars, you know,” she says, her voice full of sarcasm. My mind burns with the memory of how I used to react to her sass, back when we were in a better place.
Instead, I chuckle under my breath and shake my head. “What I should’ve said was, why not ask to drive my truck? It’ll give me a chance to check your room for any more unwelcome guests.”
