Jasper Vale (The Edens #4)(34)

“Then you do my laundry. I’ll cook. No more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner. Deal?”

“Deal.” She gave me a tiny smile. “Our first assignment of duties. Look at us, crushing this marriage thing already. Other newlyweds would be jealous. If they only knew it was all fake.”

Fake. My shoulders tensed. She was right. This marriage was as fake as my father’s handshakes and my mother’s interest in her son’s life.

I hated fake as much as I hated chocolate chip cookies.

“What?” Eloise nudged my elbow with hers.

“Nothing.” I stood from the step and walked inside.

The smell was better already, that fan blowing in the fresh, forest air. Or maybe my nose had just adjusted after the shock of the stench.

I made my way to the kitchen, my muscles already heavy and tired. My body needed fuel, so I opened the fridge and took out leftovers from dinner last night. Grilled chicken breasts, roasted vegetables and wild rice.

Eloise followed me inside, coming to stand beside the island. There was a pitcher on the countertop, one I hadn’t noticed when I’d come inside. Orange slices and apple rings floated in a ruby red liquid.

“Want some sangria?” She walked to a cabinet, taking out a cup. Then she poured herself a glass, taking a sip and grimacing. “Yum.”

“Hungry?” I asked, taking out a plate.

“Not really. I ate a lot of cookie dough.”

I frowned and took out another plate. Nutrition was important. Cookie dough and sangria weren’t going to be her dinner. So I dished us both food, my plate twice as full as hers, and carried them to the card table with forks and napkins.

Eloise took the chair beside mine, slouching in the cheap seat.

We needed to get the rest of the furniture from her rental, including the dining table. Most of her larger pieces wouldn’t fit in my Yukon, so I was going to ask Foster to borrow his truck and give me a hand lifting the heavy pieces.

But before I asked for a favor, I was letting him chill. We’d agreed to meet on Monday morning at the gym. Hopefully by then, some of his anger would have passed. Knowing Foster, he was probably at home, stewing over my lip. He’d already texted me an apology. And, unlike any of the Edens, a congratulations.

Foster and I would get past this. Probably. We’d get back to normal. Hopefully. Then in a week or two, I’d finish at Eloise’s house and we’d be done with moving.

Without any help from her fucking brothers.

The way they’d treated me had been fair. If I had a sister and she’d married a stranger in Vegas, I probably would have confronted the bastard too. But to yell at Eloise? To scold her like a child?

No. Fuck no.

Had anyone been happy for her? Or were they all just pouting because she hadn’t included them? That she’d done something without their approval first?

Foster had told me about the Edens. He had a lot of respect for Talia’s family. But they had a lot of work to do to earn mine.

Not that it mattered. Sooner rather than later, I’d just be that man who’d married Eloise. A mistake. The guy who’d disappeared after a quick divorce.

Eventually, I’d become a no one. A distant memory.

My fork stabbed a piece of chicken too hard, scraping against the plate.

While I inhaled my food, Eloise picked at hers. Every sip of her sangria looked pained but she seemed determined to drink the glass.

“Have you, um . . . gone to the coffee shop?” she asked, poking at a cube of squash.

“No.”

“I’ve gone every day.” Another piece of squash got added to her fork but she didn’t lift it to her mouth. “Lyla made my favorite pumpkin scones yesterday. She hasn’t made me pay for coffee all week.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Lyla always makes us pay. Not that any of us mind. We want to support her business. But she’s refused when I offered. And she only bakes with pumpkin in the fall.”

So Lyla was pissed too. Or hurt. Or both.

Eloise set down her fork. “Fake marriage is hard.”

I stabbed another bite of cold chicken, again harder than necessary. Did she need to keep reminding me this was fake? I was well aware.

“My parents asked me to come to the ranch for a family dinner tomorrow night. That’s why I made cookies. And sangria.” She took a drink, swallowing hard. “I think I’ll just stop by the grocery store tomorrow and buy a bottle of wine.”

I chewed, my jaw tensing as I waited for her to invite me along.

But Eloise sipped that sangria, not uttering a word. By the time her glass was empty, the cringing had stopped and my plate was empty, unlike hers.

“Done?” I asked, standing.

She nodded.

I took care of the dishes, then dug my phone from my pocket, pulling up a recipe. Then I rifled through the cupboards for a bowl and mixer.

“What are you doing?” Eloise asked, coming to the kitchen to refill her glass.

I didn’t answer. I just worked with quiet efficiency, knowing she’d figure it out.

When I hit the button on the oven to start it preheating, I knew the burnt smell would return, but hopefully the sugar and cinnamon would beat it out.

And while I made oatmeal raisin cookies, something I hadn’t done in years, Eloise stood beside the island, watching and drinking.