Now the idea of life with aman—thisman—is growing altogether too appealing.
I shift Emmaline to my shoulder for a burping and press my lips into her hair. “I know I told you men are only good for broken promises, but I was wrong. You can trust your papa.”
And I think I can, too.
Long after Emmaline finishes eating,I hold her close and rock with her as Warren makes noise in the kitchen. Hints of the regular breakfast smells along with something unfamiliar but sweet make my stomach gurgle. I pat Emmaline’s bottom. “Mama needs to change for breakfast, my darling.”
However, my daughter’s full belly coaxed her into a morning nap and she doesn’t hear me. After I place her back into her cradle, I kiss her forehead and slip away to the bedroom.
Wearing the clothes of the man who married me feels like a claim. Not so much one of ownership, but of protection. One that I don’t so much mind him having now that I know how much he wants to take care of me. But I still need to change into something proper.
I finger the buttons of my borrowed shirt before lifting the collar to my nose. Soap, sunshine, and Warren’s scent. Clean, simple, and a stark difference from the men whose dirtiness seeped so deeply into my skin that I could never wash it away with the simple basin and pitcher of water I was given.
A shiver jerks my body. Neither could I wash away the man who stank of fancy perfume.
No. I refuse to think on him. He doesn’t have any place in this new life of mine. Not with my husband here. Warrensaid he’d protect me, but I never want him to seehimand have Warren learn the terrible things done to me.
I open the armoire, indecision weighing on me as I run a hand over my dresses that hang next to his shirts. Which to wear? A solid color or a printed pattern? The lavender and pale blue are pretty, as are the other dresses with floral patterns. But it’s the cream fabric with tiny pink roses that draws my eyes more than once, so I pull it from the hanger.
It’s slightly smaller than the others but still hangs loosely on me as I change into it. If I take care of it and mind my eating, it should last a good long while. Winter is quickly approaching, but hopefully Warren won’t make me go into town anytime soon for a coat. The flat frowns of disapproval and upturned, haughty noses when the townspeople see his choice of wife isn’t what I want for any of us.
When I stand in front of the mirror and untie the loose braid Warren did last night, I pause and lean closer. Who is this person staring back at me? Harsh cheekbones, bony shoulders, thin arms at odds with the heaviness of my chest…those are all things I expected.
But that muted sparkle deep inside my eyes…that’s new. A faint twinkling softens the blue hardness encasing my pupils. Is this what real hope looks like?
It must be. I allow that hope to spread across my full lips in a tentative smile as I stand tall. “This is real,” I quietly tell the girl in the mirror. “We’re not dreaming.”
My stomach interrupts the serious moment with a rumble, and I quickly comb my fingers through my hair. On a whim, I tie half of it back before twirling some stray pieces into loose, wavy ringlets to frame my cheekbones. It’s not so much that I want to look pretty for him. After years of being stuck in clothes meant to mock me, it’s myself I want toplease. I deserve it. Besides, being a man, he likely won’t even notice the small change.
I debate sitting on the bed to wait. Warren had said he’d come get me, but the promise of hot food wafting into the room coaxes me down the hallway. Just before I step into the kitchen, I falter in uncertainty at the sight of Warren’s bare back. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him—or any man—shirtless, but an unfamiliar wave of awareness dries my mouth when I notice things about him that I didn’t want to see before.
Things like the defined lines of his shoulder blades that shift with every move as he drags out two platters and ladles grits onto them.
The way his forearms flex as he casually wipes away a smudge of flour.
I cradle my hands inside each other, the right one burning with the memory of his kiss. The man who married me is as strong and handsome as he is kind.
Warren’s song cuts off mid-note as he does a double take. “Mrs. Shay,” he says through an easy grin, slowing down each syllable to last a beat longer than it should. “I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen a woman make a dress look as fetching as you do.”
I wipe sweaty palms against my thighs and fight off an unexpected blush. “Thank you.” He didn’t mention my hair, but maybe that’s a good thing. The single compliment is difficult enough to accept on its own because of the way his eyes trace over me.
That damn charming smile of his grows even wider when he extends an elbow towards me. “May I escort you to the table for a birthday breakfast, wife?”
Wife.
Why does such a simple word cause my heart to beatjust a little faster than before? And what does he mean, a birthday breakfast? Hesitantly, I allow him to lead me to the table. The sweet smell grows stronger, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“Little Bit sleeping again?” He drags a wooden chair out and lightly holds my elbow as I lower onto it.
“Yes.” My answer comes out more breathily than I’d prefer when Warren’s hands glide over my upper arms. “It’s hard for her to stay awake on a full belly.”
“I’ll bet it is.” The roughness of his cheek against my temple brings a shiver from me as he scoots me forward. “I’m the same way after a good meal.” He lingers, and I glance up to find him staring at the front of my dress. “A damn good meal,” he says beneath his breath.
Just like that, the blush I tried to fight travels down my neck and into my chest. Any other man’s eyes would have me feeling revulsion, but as much as I try to resist, part of me secretly enjoys knowing my husband is intrigued by my body. By the time he brings our plates to the table, I’ve managed to gather control over myself.
Steam rises from the freshly boiled grits, making my mouth water. As usual, the portions are much too large, and although there’s always food left over on my plate—especially since I push it around to make it seem as if I’ve eaten more—it doesn’t stop him from serving me what he feels I need.
Today, it’s five slices of bacon, two helpings of grits, three fried eggs, and a ridiculously large biscuit. One with butter instead of jam because that’s what he thinks I want. We don’t talk much as we eat, so it comes as a surprise when Warren stops mid-bite and furrows his brow. “Something’s different.”
