Hitched(22)

It's hard work, but it’s so worth it to know I’m giving all of these creatures a safe home with nothing to worry about.

The only hitch in the morning is the moment Blake comes out to say goodbye, planting a smacker on me for Dean’s benefit.

He makes it last just long enough to offend the peacock and to make me want more, leaving me to stare at his back, filled with lusty thoughts as he walks away.

Damn. He gets to me. The knowledge that he’s crashing bingo tonight and we have to put on a good show weighs heavier on me with every passing hour.

For his part, Dean doesn’t try to hide, just sits there watching me all day long.

I pass him once not long after my morning volunteers have left. He’s outside his car on a faded purple mat doing yoga stretches.

“Morning,” he calls.

I wave, then feel guilty about it, remembering Blake’s warning that Dean is not our friend.

Though he could be.

“It’s afternoon,” I call back.

“Not in Hawaii. I’m on Hawaii time. It’s almost the same as being on regular time, except I get to pretend I’m on a beach.” He grins. “You ever let people pay to ride your horses? I rode a horse once when I was a kid. It threw me off, but I got back on it, because that’s what my parents said I needed to do. But it threw me off again, so I decided I should probably stick with riding bikes.”

“Good decision,” I reply. “I love horses, but they can be a skittish species.”

“Where’s your husband?” he asks.

“Um, I…don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that,” I say, sharing a friendly chuckle with the man who’s spying on me. Nope. Not weird at all. “Where did Kyle find you?”

“Oh, me and him go way back,” he says, clearly joking. “Actually I just met him a couple of weeks ago, while I was looking into something for someone else. You know. A confidential matter. But he seems like a good guy. I like him.” He reaches for the back pocket of his workout shorts. “You want a card? In case you need any detective work done?”

I shake my head. “No, thank you, but you should pin one up on the board at the bakery on the square in town. People go there looking for all kinds of things.”

I head inside for a short break and call Mr. Ashford, who confirms that Kyle may, indeed, be able to contest the validity of my marriage for the purposes of inheriting Gram’s property. He also kindly suggests a few other lawyers who might be able to help me if we have to go to court.

I hang up to see that I’ve got a voicemail I missed while I was outside.

From a familiar number…

I lift the phone to my ear to hear my mother’s voice. “Hope, I’m calling from Paris. I’ve heard some disturbing rumors about you getting married to one of those tacky O’Dells to satisfy some ridiculous clause in your grandmother’s will. If this is true, it’s disgraceful. Either way, call me as soon as possible. We need to head this off before it gets any worse.”

The only ray of sunshine in my parents being offended by my marriage is that they’re in Europe until August. They took off as soon as Gram was buried.

Hopefully, by the time they get back everything will have worked itself out and I can ask forgiveness for embarrassing them and we can all move on with our lives.

But seriously, thank god they’re in Europe. It certainly wouldn’t look good in court if my own mother is going around spreading rumors that I might be fake-married.

Downhearted, I put off calling her back and head outside to meet a farmer who needs to rehome a cow with stomach issues.

All I want is for Chewpaca to have a good life.

For all the animals to have a good life.

Why is Kyle so determined to wreck the good thing I’ve got going on the farm?

I’d wonder why my parents can’t support me too, but I figured out a long time ago that we don’t see eye-to-eye on anything, and that it’s often the people who are supposed to love us the most who let us down the hardest.

By five, I haven’t seen or heard from Blake. Dean has disappeared, which I assume means he’s figured out where Blake is and is over spying on him now.

I begin to hope I’ll get all the way to bingo without my other half, and won’t have to worry about the tension and weirdness of pretending to be married in public.

I finish up my chores and head inside, but when I step out of my bathroom in a towel after a nice hot shower thirty minutes later, there’s a man in my bedroom.

I stop myself mid-scream, because the man is my husband.

Technically.

He’s in dirty jeans and work boots and is also in the middle of peeling his tee shirt over his head. There’s a dirt smudge on his cheek and he has the same farmer tan that I do, which shouldn’t be attractive, except it totally is when it’s on those biceps I want to bite into like the last slice of triple chocolate cake.

“What are you doing?” I croak.

“Bingo time. Need to shower.” He shucks his pants, and lord have mercy, love a duck and grant me strength, because Blake O’Dell in black boxer shorts should be cast in iron and put on display in the town square as a model of male perfection for women everywhere to admire.

Though they’ll need to install a drinking fountain next to it to help with all the swooning.

“There’s a shower down the hall in the guest bath,” I force out around my dry tongue.