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“Yes,” I whisper. “Sorry.”
He shifts, keeping his weight on one leg as he rubs a palm over his bristly jaw, favoring his unscarred side. The collar of his plaid flannel shirt is curling under at the points. He needs to press it.Icould press it for him.
I blink, shaking off that bizarre thought. We’ve barely exchanged ten words, and already in my head I’m his wife. Fussing over his clothes and wanting to perch in his lap. So ridiculous.
“I don’t need to keep it all,” I blurt, plucking at the hem of my white sweatshirt, because he’s still staring at the stuff in the car more than at me. Mr MacGregor glances over, eyebrows raised. “If there isn’t room, I mean. Or if you don’t like clutter. I could, um, I could sell some of it or donate it or put it in storage—”
“No.”
That’s all he says, and it’s more of a grunt than a word.No.
Right. I guess we haven’t even committed to this yet. I’m acting crazy.
Mr MacGregor straightens up at last, turning to face me, and folds those thick arms over his barrel chest once again. “Jessica.”
He says my name slowly, like he’s testing it out. His dark gaze roams over me from head to toe, and my nerves crackle to life under my clothes. God, I wish I could tell what he’s thinking. Whether he likes what he sees. “Jessica Brown.”
“Or maybe Jessica MacGregor,” I say, so hot and flustered from his attention. And it’s the worst attempt at flirting ever, but his good eye glitters as he stares down at me.
“Jessica MacGregor.” The corner of his mouth lifts the smallest fraction. “Suits you.”
Aaah!
Okay, I can’t do this. I can’t flirt. I can’t handle a man, arealman, with big shoulders and a curved belly and thick thighs under those worn black jeans. A man with a beard and crinkly eyes and chest hairs poking out of the top of his flannel shirt. An older man with calloused hands.
All the men I’ve liked before were fictional. Mr Darcy and Mr Rochester types; historical rich men in tailored coats and cravats. So safely far from reality, tucked in the pages of my books, that there was never any risk of bumping into one in the street.
I never pictured myself wanting a man like this lighthouse keeper, but every second I spend with him cranks my internal temperature hotter and hotter. I don’t know what to do with myself. Jeez.
I clear my throat, grateful for the cold wind on my cheeks. “Twenty four hours.” That’s how long we’ve got together before we make our big decision: get married or part ways forever. Twenty four hours to figure out if welikeeach other, to discover whether the program made a good match. “Um. Shall I come inside?”
A scowl flits across Mr MacGregor’s face, and my heart stutters in response, but he nods sharply and waits while I fish my overnight bag out from the car. Nerves squirm in my belly as he takes it from me, and it looks like a child’s backpack slung over his massive shoulder. Glossy buttons with literary quotes clink together as the canvas shifts.
“There’s a guest room,” he grits out, then turns on his heel and strides off. I follow him quickly, legs working hard to keep up as he marches across the driveway, not looking back at me once.
Is he mad at me? Did I say something wrong? Should I not have asked to come inside?
Well, come on. If we marry, this will be my home too. Shouldn’t I at least get a peek around? What else was I gonna do—sleep on the driveway?
My shoes smack against the worn stone, and I stare at the back of my grumpy maybe-husband’s head as he leads the way to the nearest building. Seabirds scream from high above in the clouds, and it sounds like they’re laughing at me.
As he ducks through the doorway, shoulders brushing the frame, I swallow hard.
This is such a huge mistake.
Murray
This is a huge mistake. When I read Jessica’s profile on the mail order bride program, I figured I might have half a chance with the young woman who wrote it. She talked about being shy, being private, about being lonely most days. About being the plain sister who no one ever noticed, and about never dating before.
I chose her right away without bothering to read any of the other profiles. There was something about her words that called out to me. It was like humming a note and hearing a perfect harmony come floating back.
But I expected… well. Less of a looker, I guess. A nice girl, hopefully, but someone I could think straight around. Someone who might actually want a man likeme.
Instead, an angel in reading glasses drove up to my lighthouse in her beat up old car, and now I can’t wait for these twenty four hours to be over. To be alone again.
Because I got caught up in the moment for a minute there, trying to flirt with the girl, but she looked so startled that it was like dumping my head in a frigid rock pool. Icy cold reality crashed back in: I’m scarred, brutish, and everyone is scared of me. I’m making a fool of myself. All I’ve done here is set myself up for a punch to the gut.
When she caught that first glimpse of me, I thought she might dive straight back through the gate onto the lane. She was tempted, I could tell.
