Page 56 of The Reason I Married Him
Maybe it’s because he has this likable charm, and I’ve nearly been caught up in it.
Maybe it’s because he is annoyingly and stupidly attractive, and no man should ever be that good-looking, but he is. Or that he has more muscles than a man who sits at a keyboard all day every day should have.
But it’s probably because I fear he’ll find the deficiencies of this farm, know how to fix it, and become a better fit for the job than I am . . .
“Still thinking, are you?” he asks, his voice deep and sultry as his thumb rubs across my hipbone again. “It’s okay to admit that you don’t actually hate me, and this is all a front. That you find me extremely attractive, and the only way you can keep yourself away is by pretending to hate me. I get it. I’ve written about it before in a book, but just like in fiction, you’ll give in at some point.”
“Can you not compare me to your books? This is reality, Wyatt.”
“And my books are so popular because I bring reality into them. I bring real thoughts, real dreams, real heartache. They might be thrillers, but the emotions and people are real.” He studies me for a second. “The feelings you’re storing away, keeping hidden, those are real, and it will help the both of us if you just let them out.” Nope.
Not. Happening. Ever.
“I have nothing to share with you,” I say as I knock his hand down and move past him. Mentioning feelings and “opening up” to me? That’s the minute I check out. That’s a big no for me.
Sure, he can rub his thumb over my hipbone.
He can pin me against the tractor.
He can call me babe and Mrs. Preston and put his hand on my lower back.
But the moment he asks me about feelings is the moment I’m out. That’s my hard line.
I head toward the chicken coop, where I notice he has finished the construction portion. Everything is almost done from the roof to the ramp, to even a few flower boxes and laying stalls. I turn toward him in disbelief. “What time did you get here this morning?”
He comes up next to me, his chest against my back, his presence so freaking overwhelming that I can feel my knees knock together.It’s from my irritation pulsing through me andnot from the idea that this strong, attractive man standing behind me wants to marry me.
Jesus, Aubree, it’s not even for love. It’s for convenience.
But still, it’s been a long time for me to even have a male presence other than my brother around. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a man look me in the eyes, grip me by the hip, and tell me what he wants—even if it’s make-believe.
If Cassidy were still alive, she’d be screaming at me to get this man off the farm. She’d be fuming that I deserve way more than a marriage of convenience.She would know.She married for the wrong reason, and even though she loved Clarke, I know she loved someone else more, someone she never got to be with. She wouldn’t want Hattie, Ryland, or me to make the same mistake she made.She was all about feelings and true love.
We were so, so different.
“I came in around five thirty. Organized and tried to keep quiet, then got some work done.”
I look over my shoulder at him. “Five thirty? Why on earth would you do that?”
“Wanted to beat you to the coop.”
I shake my head. “That,” I say. “That will never gain my trust.” Not that I want him to gain my trust.
He’s deliberately trying to anger me. That’s what he’s doing.Don’t let him.
I walk over to the paint cans where I picked out the color Iron Ore for the coop and the fencing.
“Want me to grab the rollers?” he asks.
“No, I want you to leave.”
He walks up to me, and to my surprise, he places his finger under my chin, forcing me to look him dead in the eyes. “Aubree, I’m not going anywhere. Please, stop fighting it,” he says softly. “I’m here to stay for a while, so put me to good use. If you don’t,I’ll just do what I think needs to be done, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”
He’s right, I don’t want that at all. I don’t need him waltzing around the farm, trying to see what he can help with, especially when nothing needs his help. So even though I don’t want to spend my morning painting with Wyatt as he pesters me with his ridiculous terms of endearment, I settle with the idea that it’s the better choice than letting him go off on his own.
“Fine, grab the rollers.”
He grins at me, his thumb under my chin. “Such a good Mrs. Preston.”
