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Except now I had to care.
Because they all knew I was married.
And to one of the town’s most beloved residents at that.
Fiona was easy to like, not just because of her accent, which was endearing—and sexy as fuck. She was fucking gorgeous too. Effortlessly so. With her clear blue eyes, tanned skin, blonde hair, and sinful fucking curves, every male in the area who liked tits and pussy took notice of her. But she also swore like a sailor and spoke her mind, standing up for herself and others without hesitation.
Plus, all of her weird little Australian idiosyncrasies and sayings.
Suffice it to say, she was liked.
I hadn’t realized what a responsibility that would be, making it look like I was taking care of her as she deserved, as a husband should . To be fair, I was thinking about a whole lot of other shit. The extent to which my day-to-day life would be changed didn’t hit until I went to the bakery for a coffee. I felt it. Everyone watching, waiting. To see how I spoke to her, how I treated her.
Then there was the talk that Frank had with me. Namely what he’d do with my ‘gonads’ if I hurt her.
There was no way I could drink the night away at the bar without the town gossip mill churning—and the town likely turning on me. Not great considering the situation, and the fact that Rowan and I owned a construction business that largely relied on the residents of this town.
Yeah, there were a bunch of factors why I couldn’t just turn and leave. Beyond the obvious that it was a douchebag thing to do.
Without all the other reasons, I would’ve left, douchebag or not.
I wasn’t a good man. I had made my peace with that. Being a good man did not protect you from the horrors of life. Being a good man did not stop your wife and daughter from dying. So, who gave a fuck?
“Motherfucker,” I muttered, slamming my palms on the steering wheel before I got out of the truck.
I braced myself as I walked in the front door. Memories of similar situations washed over me. Of coming home to my mother at our house without being announced. There was always tension in the air. There were looks from my Gabbie, strained, annoyed, and communicating that she’d have something to say to me later.
Of course, my mother was oblivious to the tension and the looks.
I could only imagine Fiona’s reaction to a mother-in-law she never wanted turning up on the doorstep of her house without notice and being the kind of woman my mother was.
Music was playing when I walked in the door. That was not out of the ordinary. Fiona was constantly playing music. She had a weird and eclectic taste. One day she’d be blasting Taylor Swift, Shinedown the next. She’d introduced me to a couple of bands that I enjoyed. Not that I’d ever tell her.
Something was in the oven. It smelled fucking great. Dishes were neatly stacked on the rack, drying. That was my mother. Fiona wasn’t much of a cook. Nor was she a slob, but she tended to wait a few hours before cleaning up after herself.
Laughter spilled out from the open doors leading onto the deck. Fiona spent a bunch of time out there, too, despite the temperature. She loved being outside, in the sun. The house always had windows open, she rarely used the air conditioning—which drove me fucking mad—and she was constantly forgetting to close windows and doors before she went to bed.
Which led to many arguments about her needing to do so for her safety. It made my skin crawl thinking of her living out here alone and doing it before I moved in. She was lucky some sicko hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunity.
I’d told her as much.
She said, “That sicko is lucky they never chose this house.”
There was no talking to the woman.
I followed the sound of laughter.
My mother and Fiona were sitting on the outdoor sofas. Each of them had a wineglass in hand, the bottle resting in the cooler in front of them, along with a plethora of snacks which my growling stomach zeroed in on.
Or it would’ve, had it not been for Fiona.
Smiling. Really smiling. And when her eyes found mine, there was no look there, no promise of a ‘conversation’ later. Nothing. For once, the woman wasn’t promising some kind of conflict with me.
It almost took me back a step.
“Kip!” my mother cried, pushing up from the sofa to run over and give me a hug.
She smelled of the same perfume she’d worn all her life. The hug, like always, lasted a little too long and ended with her holding me at arm’s length, inspecting me with her weathered gaze.
