The Reason I Married Him
: Chapter 4

I wrap my towel around me and slip out of the bathroom into the main part of my bedroom and sit on the edge of my bed.

What a fucking day.

I would never admit this to Aubree, because I think she’d replace too much joy in it, but fuck am I exhausted.

And sore.

Holy shit, am I sore.

Here I am, thinking I work out and can lift all the weights, but the moment I dabble in some manual labor, I’m humbled very quickly.

I even got a blister today from wielding a hammer.

I think the last time I got a blister was when I was doing some work for a local marina, hauling in rope from the harbor as research. Another brutal day out on the job.

Just goes to show that the pads of my fingers might be tough from typing all day, but the rest of my hands and body are not prepared for manual labor.

“I’m going to need ibuprofen,” I mutter as I drape my hand over my head just as my phone dings with a text message.

These days, that can only really be one person. It seems that when Cadance fell out of love with me, she decided she no longer wanted anything to do with me. Fuck, that has stung. From preparing for life till death parts us, professing love and faithfulness, to walking away with no further contact. Man, did I read her wrong. Definitely in the I refuse to grieve her any longer stage.

Even if that doesn’t completely dissolve the hurt.

I take a look at my screen.

Laurel: How was your first day?

I sit up on my bed and text her back.

Wyatt: Last night was superior. The Rowleys welcomed me, and we all shared some cookies while we caught up. Hattie is dating Hayes Farrow, which I was surprised to see. MacKenzie was cuter than ever and loved the horse we picked out. And Aubree . . . well, she was less than thrilled to see me.

I position my pillow against the headboard and get comfortable as Laurel texts me back.

Laurel: But we kind of knew that was going to happen, right? She’s the most jaded.

Wyatt: I don’t even think jaded is the right term. She was something else.

Laurel: What do you mean?

Wyatt: For one, she was not happy to see me. I’m pretty sure she growled and sneered at me when she recognized who I was. Like a feral animal ready to attack its prey.

Laurel: Aw, your future wife.

Wyatt: Yeah, if I’m fucking lucky—or unlucky. Not sure which one it would be.

Laurel: Have you done anything to her in the past that would make her so angry with you?

Wyatt: No, we’ve barely interacted. I’ve been to a few of the family gatherings and helped Cassidy and Clarke move into their farmhouse, but I’ve never done anything that would have made her mad at me. She’s younger than me, and I never thought to interact.

Laurel: Huh, so if it’s not something you did in the past, what would make her so angry?

Wyatt: She’s incredibly protective of the farm. She was calling me out for being there today. Asking why I would show up when I had no interest before. Honestly, she’s smart. She can see right through me. I tried to act like I cared. She gave me a tour, and I was spouting off shit, acting like I knew what I was talking about.

Laurel: Did she buy it?

Wyatt: I think she did. I mean, I knew some things, but I mainly talked out of my ass, hoping for the best. I was surprised with some of the things I came up with. They made sense.

Laurel: The author brain is a scary place.

Wyatt: I never believed that until today. Because while talking about cherry almond baklava, I was thinking to myself, how are you coming up with this? Where did cherry almond baklava even come from? It was impressive. Then when she ditched me because she’d had enough, I walked back to the half-finished chicken coop, looked at the plans, and started building. I got a blister.

Laurel: Aw, look at you getting your hands dirty. How cute for you.

Wyatt: I only wish I had a tool belt. It would have completed the outfit.

Laurel: I would have given anything to have a picture of you in a tool belt building a chicken coop.

Wyatt: Maybe I can muster something up for you tomorrow. Oh . . . hey, how did the second date go?

Laurel: *blushes* Good.

Wyatt: Yeah? Like . . . really good?

Laurel: Let’s just say she’s really good at kissing.

Wyatt: I assume there will be a third date?

Laurel: She told me she’s already planning it.

Wyatt: That’s awesome. I’m happy for you. Do I get to meet her?

Laurel: Maybe when you’re done building chicken coops something I never thought I’d say.

Wyatt: LOL. Me neither.

Laurel: So everyone else likes you besides the one person supposed to like you. How do you plan on fixing that?

Wyatt: Well, as far as I see it, I have two options: I can kill her with kindness until she wants to murder me, and that’s when I strike up the deal. Or I can annoy the shit out of her until she wants to murder me, and that’s when I strike up the deal. The latter seems more fun.

Laurel: The latter seems like it could end in slow, deadly torture for you.

Wyatt: It would be worth it.

SO I’VE SPENT my fair share of time in small towns because the best thriller novels take place in towns just like Almond Bay, where it seems like everything is pristine and perfect. In fact, there are deep, dark secrets no one knows about. But Almond Bay hits differently than any other small town I’ve visited.

The buildings are a mixture of old Victorian style and Western. Instead of concrete sidewalks, they’re planks of wood. A sign for every business extends from the roof and hangs in front of the entry. Iron streetlights line the boardwalk while potted plants hang from them, brightening the walkways with an abundance of color. Not to mention, since it’s a coastal town, you have the subtle sound of waves in the background as well as the smell of the sea wafting through the air when the wind picks up.

It’s clean and brilliantly coordinated, offering the quaint feel any tourist looks for when visiting that cute little Gilmore Girl-esque town. I can only imagine what it looks like in the fall and the winter.

I hate to admit it, but I like it here.

“Hello,” a man says with a nod.

“Good evening,” I reply.

And the people are friendly. If I walked around my hometown, I doubt anyone would say hello. But here, it’s hello after hello.

Do you know what Almond Bay actually reminds me of?

Canoodle, California. It’s a small town in the San Jacinto mountains just outside Palm Springs, where the family cabin is. A cat runs the town at the moment—yes, you read that right, a cat—and it’s quirky and perfect with its diner decorated with trolls and its rustic cabins that blend in with the tall ponderosa pines and boulders that flank the mountain. But whereas Canoodle is in the mountains, Almond Bay is right next to the ocean, just tweaking the atmosphere ever so slightly.

Same vibe, though.

Same quirky characters.

Same cute shops.

And this is why small towns are the best.

You feel a sense of community.

A sense of belonging, even if you’re from out of town.

The streets aren’t bustling, the weather is a comfortable sixty-six, and a light breeze kicks up from the ocean. The sun sets along the horizon, and the streetlamps flicker as they turn on. From a few speakers strategically planted along the planked sidewalks, quiet instrumental music plays. It sets the mood but doesn’t block out conversation.

If this were a thriller, I’d mention the music but make it eerie. The kind of music that makes everyone believe that this scene is just a little too perfect—like something is about to happen.

Someone is about to pop out and⁠—

“Do you like trains?” an old man asks, coming out of nowhere and nearly making me whiz myself.

“Jesus fuck,” I mutter as I grip my chest and stare at the wrinkly old man.

With a horseshoe of gray hair around his head and a shiny dome on top, he’s sporting large brown tortoiseshell spectacles, a brown vest with a cream button-up short-sleeved shirt, and brown tweed pants. His shaky hand holds up a model train, and a quizzical pull props his brow up at an impossible height. Have you ever watched that Pixar short where the old man with the giant nose and huge eyes plays chess? That’s what this man looks like.

“Well, do you?” he asks again, leaning in closer.

And see, this is the quirkiness of the town. He’s not a threat, but I’m not sure you’d replace an old man wandering the streets asking people if they like trains anywhere else.

“Uh, they’re pretty cool,” I say. “Why, do you like trains?”

He straightens up, giving us some space between each other now. “I love them.”

“Yeah?” I ask. “What’s your favorite train engine?”

He crosses his arms and frowns at me. “How could I possibly pick a favorite? That’s like picking your favorite child.”

“Very true, my mistake.” I hold up my hands. “Is that, uh . . . N gauge?” My grandpa used to build model train sets and work with N gauge. That’s as far as my knowledge goes.

“HO,” he replies. “Do you like N?”

“My grandpa used to have a large ten-by-ten model train setup, all N scale.”

“Really?” The man’s eyes light up.

“Yup. He took my grandma to Vermont one year for their anniversary, and they fell in love with the town of Stowe. So he modeled his town off Stowe in the fall. It was really beautiful. I occasionally helped him work on the town. I think it’s been taken down since he’s passed, but we have many pictures of it.”

“Can I see?” he asks, his eyes looking like they’re going to pop out of his head out of pure excitement.

“I don’t have any on me at the moment. I can dig them up on my drive on my computer, though.”

“Where do you live? I’ll go with you.”

Oh boy.

I chuckle. “Well, I’m visiting at the moment, and I have to hit up the general store for some supplies, but I’m guessing you have something to do with that model train museum over there?” I thumb across the street where a tiny shop is squeezed between two large ones. It’s not as pristine as the other businesses surrounding it, but it seems like it meets the town’s standards, which I’m sure is good enough for him.

“Yes, I’m Rodney.”

“Rodney,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m Wyatt. It’s so nice to meet you. How about I stop by tomorrow or the next day with those pictures? You can show me around your store. Does that work?”

He nods. “Yes, that will do.”

“Great, I’ll see you . . .” He walks away before I can finish talking.

Okay, I guess that’s it.

I head toward the general store when someone says, “William. William.”

I turn around to see Rodney holding his hand up, trying to get my attention. I walk back toward him. “It’s Wyatt, actually.”

He dismissively waves his hand. “I’m leaving for a convention this weekend. So you’ll have to come to the museum on Monday.”

“Okay, I can do that. Are you going to a train convention?”

He nods. “With my good friend, Parson. Would you like to come?”

“Oh, I would, but I have some things to take care of here.” Also, I don’t know you, man. You look like a cute old grandpa, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have skeletons buried in your backyard from people you’ve killed over the years.

“Shame. I’ll grab you a hat.” He pats my shoulder and walks away.

Huh . . . okay. I mean, I’ll wear the hat. Not to mention, thanks for the book inspiration, man. There will definitely be a creepy old train man in my next book. Maybe make him seem like the murderer when it’s his arthritis making him a cranky old coot.

I make a mental note to stop by the railroad museum on Monday and then head toward the edge of town to the general store.

Almond Bay really has it all. Tourist shops like The Almond Store, Almond Outpost, and Ambrosial, which is a soap place. Then there are plenty of places to choose from to eat, like Provisions, The Cliffs, By the Slice—my favorite—a Cantina on the other side of town, and The Hot Pickle, which serves sandwiches. They top it off with The Sweet Lab and Sozzled Saloon for any nightcaps. Seriously, whoever planned this town had everything in mind.

I cross the street and pass by Pieces and Pages. I consider going inside for a moment but then think better of it. I really need some ibuprofen and hopefully Icy Hot if they have it. Not to mention, I’ll need some food as well.

The general store has this Pacific Northwest feel with the gooseneck lights and weathered roof shingles that add to the ambiance rather than make it seem unkempt. I open the front door and smile when the bell rings above me.

Immediately, I’m transported to the general store in Gilmore Girls, which is organized and quaint with everything you might need. The wooden plank floors look like they were stripped from an old barn, while the shelves are fully stocked, nicely labeled, and organized in a way that makes sense but also seems slightly chaotic.

I grab a green basket from the stack near the door and head straight for the medicine section, but it’s so small I’m actually disappointed. What the hell?

“Looking for something?” a familiar voice says.

I look to my right, where Hayes stands with a jar of pickles. “Oh hey, man,” I say. “Uh, yeah, I was looking for some ibuprofen and possibly Icy Hot.”

“You’ll want to check out the pharmacy for anything medical.”

“Oh shit, I didn’t even think about that.”

“Small-town living,” he says. “Every business in town has a claim on a specific market. Abel, the doctor in town and a good friend, opened a pharmacy next to his practice, selling everything you might need regarding pain and illness. Coleman’s barely carries anything, and I think what you’re looking at there is what they have left in stock, and fuck knows how old it is.”

I chuckle. “Makes sense.”

“I heard she’s expanding the wine section to take over this part of the store, but it will take some time.”

“Wine probably brings in more income than ibuprofen.”

“Sold together, and you have a winning combo.” He smirks.

“Fuck, you’re right.” I nod at his pickles. “A fan?”

“Hattie is.” He holds up the jar. “I don’t know if you remember, but Cassidy and Hattie used to eat these pickles together all the time.”

“That’s right,” I say, remembering catching Cassidy hovering over a pickle jar at the farm once. I assumed it was because she was pregnant and had weird-ass cravings.

“These are Hattie’s favorites, and she ran out last night, so I thought I’d stop by and grab some for her.”

“That’s a good boyfriend.”

He scratches the side of his head. “Some might call me that.” He then nods at me and asks, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

A fiancée and she left me at the altar, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Nope,” I say.

A slow grin spreads across Hayes’s lips. “Ever think about chasing Aubree?”

If only he knew.

But this is the perfect opportunity to lay a foundation for my plan.

“You know, not when I first met her. Never really spoke to her, but I have to admit, I realized just how beautiful she is last night when I saw her again.”

“It’s in the Rowley genes,” Hayes says as we move around the store together. I grab a few things while we speak.

“Not sure she’s too fond of me, though. I tried to talk to her this morning, and I’m positive I made her hate me even more.”

“Probably,” Hayes says, not even sugarcoating it. “Aubree’s always been a touch on the serious side, but you have to realize where she’s coming from.”

I grab a bag of trail mix—one of my favorite things to snack on when I’m writing. This bag has cashews in it, which is a total score. “Where is she coming from?”

“Well, they didn’t have the greatest childhood, you know that. Their father was an absolute dick. A drunk. Treated them terribly. Ryland and Cassidy were in charge most of the time, and because Hattie was so young, they focused a lot on her. Aubree was the assistant, if that makes sense.”

I pause in front of the fruit and grab a bag of apples. Turning toward Hayes, I ask, “So what you’re saying is, Hattie got the motherly attention from Cassidy that she needed while Aubree was there to help dole out motherly attention when she was too young to do so?”

“Yeah. She was just old enough to help but still young enough to need that reassurance of love. Having some of that attention would have benefited her. I’m not criticizing Cassidy because she never should have been put in that position, but yeah, it was all pretty fucked up, and Aubree was sort of left behind.”

“That makes sense.” I move over to the cucumbers and grab a few. “But why would she be so closed off?”

“I think she’s just trying to prove herself, you know? Make something of herself because she was lost for so long.” Hayes shrugs. “I could be way off base here, but she is very different from Cassidy or Hattie. Colder. I think there’s warmth inside her, I’m just not sure she will ever let it out. I mean, I see it on occasion with Mac and sometimes with Hattie, but she’s very guarded.”

“Interesting.”

“Which means . . .” Hayes turns toward me, and in a serious voice, he says, “Don’t fuck with her. If you want to take her out on a date, make your intentions clear.”

“What makes you think I want to take her out?”

“You mentioned she’s beautiful, and she’s half owner of the farm. I’m not sure exactly why you’re here. You said reconnecting, but I think there’s more to it than that. Just be careful, cautious. She’s been hurt, man. Her father . . . he was cruel, and Aubree bore the brunt of that cruelty more than the others. Verbally, anyway. Don’t hurt her more. She’s bendable, but at some point she will break.”

“I don’t plan on hurting her,” I say.

“Good.” He nods at me. “Why are you limping?”

“I’m not limping,” I say. “Just . . . uncomfortable walking at the moment.”

He chuckles. “Get your hands dirty today?”

“Probably too dirty.” I shuffle toward the front of the store, where I grab a bag of Red Vines and then set my basket on the conveyor belt.

“Hey, Dee Dee,” Hayes says to the cashier.

“Farrow, are you treating our girl kindly?”

“Grabbing her favorite pickles.”

Dee Dee smiles. “Good man.”

Hayes gestures toward me. “This is Wyatt Preston, Hattie’s brother-in-law and Clarke’s brother.”

Dee Dee’s face registers with shock. “Wyatt, it’s nice to meet you. Are you visiting?”

“I am,” I say. “Not sure how long. Hard not to fall in love with such a beautiful small town.”

“It is, isn’t it? I believe Ethel was telling me something about a famous author visiting who is related to the Rowleys in some way. Does that happen to be you?”

See how the grapevine works in this town?

Let’s just hope it continues to work in my favor.

“That would be me.” I lean in and whisper, “But I’m trying to keep the author part on the down-low.”

“Shouldn’t have told Ethel then.” She laughs as she finishes ringing me up, and I pay with one tap of my card to the credit machine.

I laugh. “She’s a great lady. Love her inn also. Clean and comfortable, beautiful setting. Amazing breakfast. She’s making it hard for me to move on. I might stay there forever.”

“I bet she’d love that,” Dee Dee says as she rings up Hayes’s pickles.

He pays with cash and tells her to keep the change.

I pick up my one paper bag, and Hayes skips the bag, opting instead to hold his jar.

“It was nice meeting you, Dee Dee. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Yes, you will,” she says with a wave before she helps the next customer.

“Want me to walk you down to the pharmacy? If Abel is in, I can introduce you as well.”

“That would be awesome,” I say.

“It’s right across from Five Six Seven Eight, so you’ll be headed in the right direction.”

“Perfect.”

Together, we move down the boardwalk, passing Pieces and Pages once again as well as The Sweet Lab. I look through the window to see what they have. Seems like a lot of pie. Yup, I’ll be going in there.

“So what did you do today that made you require ibuprofen and Icy Hot?”

“Well, took a tour from Aubree at first. I think I made her mad by offering different, what I thought were helpful suggestions at the time, but probably came off as a know-it-all.”

“Ooo, yeah, she undoubtedly hated that.”

“It was clear as day. So to make it up to her, I started working on the chicken coop. The plans were out in the open, no one was working on it, and I felt like I could be useful, so I was. I got all the framing done for the outdoor part, and tomorrow, I plan on setting up the fencing.”

“Did she see you working on it?”

“Yeah. She didn’t look happy.”

“I wouldn’t think that she would.” We pass The Hot Pickle, and I consider grabbing a sub for dinner after I’m done at the pharmacy. It smells amazing like they make their own fresh bread. No doubt that they do. Almond Bay isn’t just any regular small town. They seem to be more on the upscale side. Like what small town has a soap store?

“Won’t stop me from working on it tomorrow.”

“That’s if she didn’t finish it tonight,” Hayes says as we cross Nutshell Drive and run right into a sizable white-and-purple building with a Pharmacy sign. Farther down the building is another sign that says Doctor. It makes me chuckle.

“Wait.” I pause as his words register. “Do you really think she would finish it tonight?”

“Out of spite, yes,” Hayes says and opens the door to the pharmacy for me.

Clean, white, orderly, this place screams drugstore. A cooler along the wall holds a variety of drinks, while the aisles contain shelves with everything you might need when it comes to being sick, ranging from medications to crutches to tissues. There’s even a chicken soup aisle, electrolytes, and soft foods. Smart.

“Hey, Abel,” Hayes says as we walk by a tall man in a pair of khaki pants and a rolled-up, checkered button-up.

“Hey, man,” Abel says as he glances over at me. “Wait, is this the infamous Wyatt, aka W.J. Preston, who Ethel is nearly fainting about every chance she gets?”

“She got to you too?” I ask.

Abel nods. “Dude, she has visited everyone on Main Street at this point.” He holds his hand out. “I’m Abel, it’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I say, liking how easygoing he is. A doctor who just goes by his first name is rare where I’m from. I certainly see why Hayes has settled here.

“Did you come in for something specific?”

Hayes places his hand on my shoulder and says, “Someone went a little hard out on the farm and is now starting to hurt from it.”

Abel chuckles. “I understand that completely. Let me hook you up.” He moves through the aisles, bringing us to the pain relief section.

“So are you the pharmacist in town as well?” I ask him.

“Ehh, just doctor, but I own the pharmacy. Our pharmacist is out for the night, and I cover on occasion. I was about to leave, though. You caught me at the right time.” He reaches for a gel cap ibuprofen bottle, then he moves around to the other side of the aisle. We follow him. He pulls a roll-on bottle off the shelf and hands it to me. “This is a form of Icy Hot but has CBD oil in it, which will be way better for those aching muscles.”

“So do I just bathe in this when I return to my room?”

He laughs. “That sore, huh?”

“The fact that my back is already tensing up tells me things won’t be good in the morning.”

“Maybe we need to get you some electrolytes as well. Do you have a water bottle?”

“I do.”

He walks us over to the drink section and asks, “Do you like lemon lime?”

“Love it.”

“Then this is for you.” He pulls out three tubes of Nuun Hydration electrolytes in the lemon-lime flavor. “Have a couple of these a day. Just fill up your water bottle and drop one in. It will help, and if you really want to soak the sore muscles, I can grab you some Epsom salts so you can take a bath.”

“Ehhh, sitting in a bath, just staring at my dick doesn’t do much for me.”

Both of the men laugh. “Dude, look at your phone or something,” Hayes says.

“When I tried that, I dropped my phone in the water. I have butterfingers. Not a good idea.”

“Well, if you want to sit in water and stare at your dick, just let me know. I would be more than happy to direct you toward the Epsom salts.”

“If I see you tomorrow, you’ll know I’m desperate.”

We head toward the register, and I set the items down. Abel checks me out and slips the items in my brown paper bag.

When I pay with my card, he says, “How is Aubree taking to the help?”

“What do you think?” Hayes says before I can even open my mouth.

“My guess is, not well.” Then Abel looks me in the eyes and says, “You here to take over the farm?”

“What?” I ask, brows creased. “No, why would you think that?”

“When they found out that you owned part of the land, they weren’t too happy about it. I know Aubree even saw a lawyer to see what could be done.”

“Really?” I ask.

Hayes nods. “Yeah, she’s terrified that she might lose it to you.”

I shake my head. “Nah, I don’t want to take anything from her. I’m honestly really impressed with what she’s accomplished. I just figured I owe it to my brother to be a part of it in some way.”

Okay, I know that’s a lie. You don’t have to point it out. And sure, do I feel bad lying to these guys? Of course I do, but like I said, it’s all part of the plan. Aubree will get her farm. I just need to weasel my way in first to get what I need. Don’t fucking judge me.

“Have you told her that?”

“Uhh, maybe?” I ask. “Honestly, today is pretty murky, but I’ll be sure to tell her tomorrow.”

“Probably a good idea. I know it’s something they were all worried about. When I heard that you were in town, I texted Ryland, and he said you came over last night and had a great visit.”

“Ryland is a hell of a guy. They didn’t have to welcome me in like they did. The only one who wasn’t welcoming was Aubree, but I can understand why. I’ll work on that.”

“Smart man,” Abel says. “All right, I’m heading out. See you around, Wyatt.”

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow.” I smirk. “You know, for the dick staring.”

“Weird way to put it, man,” Abel says, shaking his head and laughing.

Hayes and I walk out of the pharmacy together and head toward The Hot Pickle. “The inn is that way,” Hayes says.

“Going to grab a sub for dinner.”

He nods. “Okay, then I’ll part ways with you.”

“Thanks for the chat and helping me around town.”

“Anytime,” he says.

“Oh hey.” I step closer and say, “What do you think about that Rodney guy? Safe to be around?”

Hayes grins. “Did he ask you if you liked trains?”

“Approached me right on the street, nearly made me wet myself.”

Hayes lets out a boisterous laugh. “Rodney is an awesome guy. Eccentric, slightly deranged at times, but in a fun, I’m old and crotchety way. But he’s harmless, just really invested in trains.”

“Seemed like it. And what about Ethel? This morning, she left a note under my door telling me how excited she was that I was staying at her inn.”

“Also a great lady. Will spread gossip like it’s her job and has no problem poking her nose into your business. Careful what you say around her. She’ll never repeat it wrong, but she will repeat it.”

“Good to know. Anything or anyone else I need to worry about?”

Hayes shakes his head. “Other than Aubree, I think you’re good.”

“Think she’s my biggest hurdle?”

“Mountain, man. She’s your biggest mountain.”

And with that, he takes off, heading back toward the general store, pickles in hand.

Yeah, I think he’s right. To get what I want, I’ll have to climb a mountain.

FUCK ME, why do my inner thighs hurt so much?

It’s not like I did a set of lunges with extra weight that would turn my legs into noodles today, but here I am.

I brought some muffins from The Sweet Lab for everyone to share this morning, hoping to gain some favorable points for my side, but the moment I pulled up to the barn and parked my car, I realized that there really isn’t anyone else here, besides Aubree’s four-by-four.

Maybe it’s a late start day or something.

I walk—and I mean slowly tip tap across the dirt driveway because, Jesus Christ, my legs—and stop when the chicken coop comes into view.

Hayes was right.

The wiring has been installed and a ramp from inside the barn to the outside portion has been built as well.

Did she stay up late and work on it, or wake up early this morning? Maybe a little of both.

Either way, she’ll give me a run for my money. I didn’t think winning over Aubree would be easy, but if this is what I’m dealing with, I’m in a lot of trouble.

Unsure of where she is, I head toward the barn with the muffins—and my electrolytes—just as she appears from the dark side of the barn, holding a pair of wire cutters.

And I know that I said Aubree was beautiful in front of Hayes, but fuck . . . I meant it. She has a natural, earthy beauty that you don’t see very often. Today, she’s wearing short overalls and a red tube top so her curvy sides are showing. Her hair is styled into two French braids, and she has scrunched socks and work boots on her feet. But what sends me over the edge is the rolled-up bandanna in her hair and the coat of mascara framing her breathtaking eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she asks as her morning greeting. It could have been worse. She could have told me to go to hell.

Or she could have taken my box of muffins from my hand and chucked them against the barn wall, so I should be happy with this.

“Good morning to you as well.”

“It was good until you showed up.”

Ooo, is she ripe today.

I kind of like it.

“Clever,” I say and then hold out the box of muffins. “Stopped by The Sweet Lab. I asked Debbie behind the counter what kind of muffin Miss Aubree Rowley enjoys, and she told me you like the maple apple muffin, so I got you some.”

She stares at the box but doesn’t move.

“I know you want one. She told me you love them so much that she sees you buying one at least once a week.”

“She’s lying.”

“Is she?” I ask with a raise of my brow.

“Yes,” she says, snatching the box from me and setting it on the tractor wheel. She flips open the lid, takes one, and bites into the top without even removing the wrapper.

Okay . . . maybe we’re getting somewhere. Maple apple muffins are the way to her heart.

Well, the way to her not spitting venom.

I walk up to the tire to grab one, but she swats at my hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asks.

“Uh, enjoying breakfast with you?”

“These are my muffins. You got them for me, no?”

“I did,” I reply.

“Then that means they’re mine, and I’m going to tell you right now that I’m not good at sharing.”

“If I don’t have a muffin, I’ll starve.”

“That sounds awfully dramatic, don’t you think?” she asks.

“Yes, but I’m an author. I’m supposed to be dramatic.”

She takes another bite, and the scent of maple and apple wafts toward me, causing my stomach to growl. “Is that a requirement?”

“With the writer’s guild, yes.”

“Well, not a fan, so take your drama somewhere else. Maybe take it back into town where you can get breakfast—hey!”

She shouts when I snatch the muffin out of her hand.

“Give me that!” she shouts just as I lick the top of the muffin, claiming it as mine. “Ew, what is wrong with you?”

“I told you I was hungry.”

“Do you really think I won’t eat that even though you licked it?”

“I’d be impressed if you did.” I hold the muffin out to her. “Go ahead and take it. The bread is probably moist from my saliva.”

She huffs and goes back to the bakery box. “You’re disgusting.”

“You made me be disgusting. If you’d just shared, I wouldn’t have had to lick your muffin . . .” I think about it for a second, my words registering, and a smile crosses my lips.

She points her finger at me. “See, disgusting.”

“Hey, you thought of it too.”

“Only because you grinned like an immature teenager.” She unwraps her muffin this time and takes a bite of the crunchy bottom.

“You don’t have to say disgusting, by the way. Nothing disgusting is involved when . . . I lick a muffin.”

“Doubtful,” she says. “You probably breathe too hard, lose focus, and waste time.”

“The perception you have of me is entirely too flattering. You’ll give me such a big ego that I won’t fit through these barn doors.”

“Don’t worry, I have no problem popping it so you fizzle right through them.”

“I have no doubt about that.” I motion to the chicken coop. “Looks like you couldn’t stand the fact that I framed out the coop yesterday. Had to show me up, did you?”

“No. I just didn’t want you to have the joy of completing a project on the farm.”

I stare at her. “That’s a little psychotic.”

“Are you really calling a woman psychotic?”

“Uh . . . no?”

“You better not. If I were a man and I decided to finish the chicken coop that a lady started the day before, it would look as if I was chivalrous. Like I was a kind man, not making the lady do all the work, but because you’re the man starting the project and I’m the one finishing it, I’m coming off as a bitch, aren’t I?”

“Well, I wouldn’t use the word bitch. Probably strong-willed. And it’s not about you completing the project but more so your attitude.”

“What if the roles were reversed? Wouldn’t you be seen as the grumpy man, the Luke Danes who everyone loves, while I’m the crotchety Emily Gilmore?”

“Nice references,” I say. “And I don’t see you that way.”

“You’re just saying that,” she says as she toes the ground. “Trust me when I say I know what everyone in this town thinks of me.”

“Oh yeah? What do they think of you?” I ask.

“That I’m stubborn, mean, rude, jaded.”

“Is that how you feel?”

Her eyes meet mine, and she pauses for a moment, making me believe she actually might talk to me . . . until she says, “I wasn’t looking for a therapy session this morning, Wyatt.”

“Wasn’t offering one.”

She takes a bite of her muffin, and with a full mouth, she asks, “What are you doing here? All I heard yesterday from Ryland is how the town is falling in love with you. You’ve been here for one day. What are you trying to do? Win them over so you can steal my farm out from under me? I’m going to tell you right now⁠—”

“I don’t want the farm,” I say, causing her to pause midsentence in shock.

She swallows her bite. “Wait, what?”

I let out a sigh, wishing I didn’t have to have this conversation now, but if I don’t, I think she’ll keep trying to get rid of me, and we’ll just go around in circles. If I have the conversation now, maybe she can warm up to the idea or even say yes. Maybe she’ll be relieved, who knows.

“I think this conversation would be best if we go sit down somewhere.”

I can sense her hesitation, but with her muffin in hand, she walks out of the barn, and I follow her, thinking that’s what she wants.

She brings me to a small white building, which she opens up to reveal a quaint office. Where was this on the tour?

Probably didn’t want me to see it in case I started snooping. I wouldn’t put it past her.

She sits at the desk while I sit in one of the chairs across from her.

I manspread while she crosses one leg over the other.

“You want to have a conversation.” She motions her hand toward me. “Converse.”

I guess, here we go.

“I don’t want the farm, Aubree. I actually don’t want anything to do with it. I’m willing to hand over my rights, free of charge. You just take everything.”

She sits taller, her muffin ignored now.

“Why would you do that? Unless . . . is there a catch?”

“Yes,” I answer, not wanting to hide it.

“Of course.” She leans back in her chair. “There’s always a catch. I knew you were here for a reason. You came in here, acting like you wanted to get close to your niece⁠—”

“I do,” I say quickly. “I do want to spend time with MacKenzie. I think that’s important.”

“But not the main reason you’re here.”

I shake my head. “It’s not.”

“What’s the real reason? Maybe this time you’ll be honest with me.”

Here it goes.

“I want to marry you,” I say.

The words fly out of my mouth and float between us, creating an awkward tension. I know she heard them because she’s having a hard time blinking as she stares blankly at me.

Consider her shocked.

Stunned.

Probably wondering what sort of fifth dimension she just walked into.

“Uh . . . what?” she finally asks when she replaces her voice.

“I want to marry you.”

“Yeah.” She nods. “Heard that part. But why?”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

That makes her face fall flat. “You know, if you’re not going to be serious about this, Wyatt, then you’re wasting my time. You either tell me the real reason you’re here or just freaking leave.”

“I want to marry you.”

She stands from her chair on a huff, grabs her muffin, and heads toward the door. I pop out of my chair just as quickly, and before she can exit, I grab her by the wrist and pull her back into the middle of the office.

Her eyes flash down to where I’m gripping her and then back up to me. “Do not touch me.”

“Don’t walk away,” I say, matching her tone, growing more serious so she knows I’m talking business.

Her chest rises and falls as her eyes match mine. “I’m not staying here if you’re not being serious.”

“I’m being serious. I’m asking you to marry me.”

“Stop it,” she says, attempting to pull away.

“I need you to marry me,” I say this time, which causes her to pause.

She wets her lips before she says, “What do you mean, you need me to marry you?”

“If you sit down, maybe we can talk about it.”

“No, tell me here, now.”

Knowing I won’t win with this woman, I say, “My family owns a cabin that is supposed to go to the first grandchild who marries. My cousin, who I absolutely hate and who cares nothing about the cabin, is now engaged and rubbing it in my face. I need to get married before he can take possession of the cabin.”

“You’re serious?”

“Never been more serious,” I say.

“Then why not ask some random girl on the street? Maybe a friend? You don’t even know me.”

“My one friend I could ask is gay, and my cousin knows that. I need someone who would make sense. You would make sense.”

“Uh, no, I wouldn’t. We’ve barely spent any time together. And also . . . I’m not marrying you.”

“We have a connection,” I say, my heart racing as I lay out my plan, seeing it’s already starting to fail from the look of disbelief in her eyes. “The farm.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Can we please sit down? I can tell you everything.”

She purses her lips, and I can see her debating what to do.

“Please,” I say, practically resorting to begging here.

She lets out an irritated sigh and then moves past me, bumping my shoulder in the process, and sits in one of the chairs in front of her desk. Grateful, I take the seat next to her. She crosses her legs, pulling them both up on the chair, and stares at me expectantly.

Okay, you have her attention. Let it all out.

“Like I said, there’s a family cabin that means a lot to me. Consider how much this farm means to you, and that’s how I feel about the cabin. When my grandfather passed, I just assumed, given our close relationship, he’d leave it to me. However, per his will, the first grandchild to get married takes possession. I’m not sure if he did this to make sure the lineage is carried on. Either way, it put a wrench in my plans. My cousin Wallace is engaged now. He didn’t have the same relationship with my grandfather. He hated the cabin, and I know if he takes ownership, he’ll bulldoze it and build something more modern. I can’t stomach that. So my friend Laurel helped me come up with this plan.”

“And what is the plan exactly?” she asks, folding her arms over her chest.

“You marry me for a year⁠—”

“A year? That’s insane.”

“It wouldn’t be that long in the grand scheme of things.”

“A year is a year. And why would I even consider doing this for you?”

“Because,” I say, taking a deep breath. “If you marry me for a year, then I’ll give you the rights to my half of the farm when we divorce. It’s all yours, no questions asked.”

Her eyes narrow at me. She’s not a fan of the plan.

“That’s blackmail.”

“Uhh, not really,” I say. “It’s called making a deal.”

“A deal is like I’ll give you an apple for this orange. You’re asking me to marry you!”

“Well, if you think of the apple as the marriage and the orange as the land, then it could resemble the deal you’re talking about.”

“You have lost your mind.” She shakes her head. “Wyatt, marriage is serious. And what am I supposed to do, marry you and then say peace out, see you in a year?”

I cringe, knowing she’s really not going to like this part. “Uh, actually, we would have to pretend we’re married.”

Jaw clenched, she asks, “What do you mean, pretend?”

I clear my throat. “You know, uh, live together, that sort of thing.”

“No fucking way.” She stands from her chair and moves out of the office before I can even stand.

I chase her and say, “It won’t require intimacy if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She turns on her heel and faces me. “Anything that involves having to live with you is intimate. It’s bad enough I have you following me around this farm. The last thing I need is to come home to my guest house, and see you there, with your feet propped up on my pillow, typing away on your computer.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m the kind of husband who’d never prop his feet up on your pillow.”

“Jesus,” she mutters before she continues walking.

“We could make it work, Aubree. We could get a house in town or something.”

“With what money?” she asks. “Also, I like being near the farm. I like being near Ryland to help him out. I’m not going to move just to accommodate your asinine idea.”

“Not to sound like a total douche, but I have a lot of money. We could build a tiny home to live in, something larger than what you have.”

She walks up to me and presses her finger to my chest. “Why don’t you take that money and buy yourself a mail-order bride?”

And with that, she takes off toward the chicken coop, where I hear her slam some wood around.

Wow, that went way worse than I thought it would.

WYATT: I proposed to Aubree.

Laurel: OMG! Did you get down on one knee? Did she kick you to get up? Did she say yes?

Wyatt: She told me to replace a mail-order bride. Makes me wonder if getting down on one knee would have convinced her that I’m the husband she needs.

Laurel: From what you’ve told me, doubtful. What are you going to do now?

Wyatt: I’m not giving up. I’m here for at least five more days. She gave her employees a long weekend, meaning I can drive her nuts without them knowing.

Laurel: Your action plan is to continue to poke the bear? Do you really think that’s a good idea?

Wyatt: Sometimes you have to keep poking until the bear cracks. I have no problem doing that. Although, I wonder if the general store carries protective cups for men. I might need one from the anger in that one.

Laurel: Look into overnighting one.

Wyatt: Might have to. But in all honesty, I think I saw a small sliver of interest in her eyes when I laid out the plans. She lost her mind a bit when I told her we’d have to pretend to like each other for a year and live together.

Laurel: Doesn’t she know that you’re great at sleeping on couches and being a slug? Do you need me to write a letter of recommendation on your behalf, stating just that?

Wyatt: Is this your attempt to be the helpful best friend?

Laurel: Am I not doing a good job?

Wyatt: Normally, you exceed expectations, right now . . . no.

Laurel: How am I supposed to help you when you think poking the bear is the way to go?

Wyatt: I’d like to know that when I get my balls chopped off, you’ll be there to nurse me back to health.

Laurel: Are you going to want to be nursed back to health if your balls are chopped off? You’re not a starfish. They won’t grow back.

Wyatt: You don’t know my body’s abilities.

Laurel: Aw, you started a fresh state of denial. It’s good to see you growing.

Wyatt: Right before your very eyes.

Laurel: Well, good luck with the poking because it seems like you’ll need it.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Aubree asks as she comes up behind me. I have a landscape wheel in one hand and marking pins in the other.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I ask.

After she stormed out and I spoke to Laurel, I decided to get some lunch and make a list of things I can do to push Aubree to her limit. I know what you’re thinking. Wyatt, that’s a dick thing to do.

And yes, you’d be correct. And before you sneer at that, please note that I asked her nicely several times and even offered up a tiny home, something I certainly thought she’d like. So I tried. She said no, and now we’re here.

Will this backfire on me? The likelihood is very high, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Also, if I didn’t notice just a hint of interest, I’d probably go on my sad, lonely way. But I saw it in her eyes—it’s there. I just have to make her see what a fantastic idea it is.

“It looks like you’re trying to piss me off.”

Can’t get anything past her.

“Why on earth would I want to piss off my future bride?”

I swear, hand to heart, I see steam come out of her ears as she says, “Don’t call me that.”

I haven’t seen Aubree in a violent state, so she might be all bark and no bite. Even with that knowledge tucked away, seeing her snarl at me doesn’t stop my testicles from shivering with fear. They’re knocking together in horror.

“Is it not true?” I ask her.

“It’s not. I didn’t accept your ridiculous proposal.”

“Was it because I didn’t get down on one knee? Because I can.”

I start to kneel, but she swats at me. “Get up. Good God, you’re ridiculous.”

“So it wasn’t the knee thing. Well, if it comes down to jewelry, I can get you the ring of your dreams or something very modest. Maybe a promise necklace . . .” When her face sours, I add, “Or perhaps a promise key chain.”

“It wasn’t the proposal. It’s you. You’re the problem. Your personality. Your idea of being married. That’s why I said no.”

“Hmm, seems a bit harsh,” I say. “Maybe if you got to know me better, you’d say yes.”

“I’m not saying yes. I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to be tied to anyone. And I especially don’t want to get married to you, because that means you’ll stick around here. The last thing I want is you walking around the farm with stakes and a freaking landscaping wheel.”

“Shame. I’d be a good husband.” I turn away from her and keep walking out toward the field. Although, if you ask Cadance, I wouldn’t have been that.

“Where are you going?” she asks while trailing after me.

“To the fields.”

“Why?” she asks.

“Given that you’re not my wife or bride-to-be, I don’t think I have to answer that question.”

She rushes in front of me and says, “Given that I’m part owner of this farm, I have the right to know.”

“Not when it’s my piece of land.”

Let the poking begin.

“Do not go out there and start messing things up,” she says.

“Why would I mess things up? It’s not like I’m going to destroy your business out of spite because you rejected my proposal of marriage.” I grin at her, and her eyes fall flat with fury.

“Wyatt Preston, I suggest⁠—”

“Wyatt Joseph Preston, in case you wanted to use my middle name in your tirade.”

Her lips purse.

Her eyes narrow even farther.

And her hands twitch at her side.

“Wyatt Joseph Preston”—ahh, she used my full name—“I suggest you tell me what you’re going to do, or I’m going to attach myself to you.”

“Perfect, that’s just what I want. Maybe you’ll get used to me then.”

I move past her and head out toward the field, and to my surprise, I hear her feet pad against the solid dirt ground, and then she nearly pulls me backward as she hops up onto my back and loops her legs around my waist, clutching onto me in a piggyback.

It takes me a second to gain my balance, but I playfully nuzzle my head against hers when I do.

“What are you doing? Stop that.” She lifts to avoid me while still staying attached.

“Just cuddling with my missus. This is what you’d get with marriage, all the cuddles.”

“That’s not a selling point,” she deadpans.

Enjoying the free ride she’s taking—because it means she’s next to me, and I can keep needling at her until she says yes—I ask, “Do you not like to be touched, Aubree?”

“Not by strange men I don’t know.”

“You know me enough. Your sister hugged me. That means something.”

“My sister would hug a lamp post if it glittered under the sun in just the right way. That means nothing to me.”

“Mac hugged me.”

“She’s a child, and you gave her a present.”

“Solid point. But . . . your brother hugged me.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“How do you know?” I ask as I carry her across the farm, not really fazed by the extra weight on my back. I’m sure I’ll be crying about it tomorrow, though. Might have to pick up those Epsom salts. “You were scowling in the corner, so you could have missed the fact that he gently caressed my back as a hello.”

“That’s not what Ryland does.”

“Either way, you know enough about me that if I were to flip you over my head, onto this ground, and then hover above you to offer you a hug of apology, you’d accept the touch.”

“I’d knee you in the junk and get up myself.”

“Technically, that would be touching me, so I win.” I smile to myself.

“What exactly are you winning?”

“You, of course. What a prize too. A little bit of ornery, a lot of sass, and a bunch of growling. What a lovely bride you’ll make.”

“I don’t growl.”

“I saw you growl at a rabbit yesterday. Its poor legs gave out on it, and it scrambled away, army-crawl style, into the bushes, and then you sat there, pointed, and laughed.”

“What the actual hell?” she says. “Is that what your author brain does all day, make up scenarios in your head that are not true?”

“Yes,” I answer. “It’s how I create scenes and dialogue. Do you not give in to your thoughts during the day?”

“I sure as hell don’t think about a nice lady scaring off a bunny army-crawl style.”

“I like that you slipped nice in there as a description for yourself. Not something I’d have chosen, but then again, I wouldn’t have chosen you as my own personal koala either, but here we are.”

“If you only told me what you were doing, I wouldn’t have to ride you,” she replies.

“This wouldn’t be my definition of riding me,” I say. “I have a completely different image in my head.”

“Ew,” she says. “I would never.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

In an annoyed tone, she says, “I’ve tried it several times. I just mean I wouldn’t do it with you.”

“Now that’s not fair. I’m a good-looking man with strong fingers from typing all day. You have no idea the kind of pleasure I could bring.”

“Good thing I have no desire to replace out either.”

“Your loss.” I shrug. “My acupuncturist told me I have the strongest thumb muscles she’s ever seen.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed with that? What are you even going to do with thumb muscles?”

I pause and say, “Uh . . . a lot, Aubree. A whole fucking lot.”

“Forget I even asked.”

“No, let’s dive into that. I think a little education would be nice on our jaunt, don’t you?”

“Not if it involves you talking about your thumbs and sticking them places.”

You know, despite her grouchy attitude and irritated disposition, she’s really quick-witted and, perhaps, a touch humorous? I know that might be a bit of a stretch, but her responses have made me smile.

“If we’re going to be married, we should discuss these things.”

“We’re not getting married,” she says, exhausted.

Hmm, maybe if I say it enough, I’ll wear her down. Add that to the list of things to poke her with.

“So you think, but mark my words, five days from now, you’ll be saying I do!”

“In your author dreams.”

“PUT THAT BACK,” I yell at Aubree, who has removed yet another one of my wire stakes.

“No.” She has them all gripped in her hands, definitely pleased with herself.

“I’m doing hard work here, and you’re ruining it.”

“Just like you’re ruining my day?” she asks. “I could be finishing that coop. Instead, I’m out here in the hot sun, helicoptering over you as if you’re a toddler running wild in a potato field.”

“That was your choice. I didn’t force you to come out here. You’re the one who climbed me like a tree . . . so . . .” I wiggle my eyebrows.

“Stop being disgusting,” she says with an unamused glare.

“Seriously, put the stake back.”

“Not until you tell me what you’re doing.”

Rolling my eyes, I say, “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m marking my side of the land. I have some people coming Monday who are going to tear up the fields to make room for my cows.”

Her mouth falls open, and her body goes slack.

“Excuse me?” she says.

“You heard me. I truly believe you have too much potato waste, and we could be using this space for something more substantial, like cows.”

“You know nothing about farming. Do you know how expensive the start-up will be for that?”

“Well, thank God I’m a single man with an expendable income that I can fuck around with. Moooooo-ve over . . . the cows are coming, baby.”

I guide the landscaping wheel down the field while using an app on my phone that shows me the land’s topography. When I hit a corner, I put down a stake, only for her to snatch it again.

I turn toward her and say, “You’re making this very counterproductive for the both of us.”

“You are not tearing out my fields.”

“My fields.” I boop her on the nose, and she swats me away. “But they could be yours if you become Mrs. Wyatt J. Preston.” I look up at the sky dreamily. “Aubree Falooloo Preston. Has a beautiful ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“You’re deranged. Now stop this nonsense. I have things I need to do, and I can’t babysit you this whole time.”

“I never asked you to babysit me. Feel free to leave anytime you want. I’m just going to keep working.”

“You realize if I leave and you still stake, I’ll come out here tonight with a flashlight and remove all the stakes, erasing your unnecessary work.”

“You’re going to be that spiteful?”

“You have no idea how spiteful I can be.”

“Well, Mrs. Preston, it seems you have met your match,” I say, grinning at her.

Oh, I can tell . . . this is going to be fun.