Page 67 of The Reason I Married Him
“Believe it.”
“You are such a liar.” I chuckle. “You know by tomorrow, the entire town will congratulate us on our newfound love.”
She side-eyes me. “Just because I called you my boyfriend doesn’t mean I love you.”
“Ouch,” I say, clutching my heart. “That stings, wife. You know, I love you. You’re my moon and sky and everything in between. You are the light of my life. The apple of my eye. My one true love and the reason I can breathe on this planet. You give me?—”
“Oh my God, shut up,” she says, thoroughly annoyed with me.
I laugh some more. “I’m starting to think this relationship of ours is one-sided. I’m thinking . . . that I might, I don’t know, like you more than you like me.”
“That’s one thing you’re one hundred percent right about.” She sets her sandwich down and picks up her drink. She lets her feet dangle off the back of the truck as she stares out at the field. I watch her cheeks hollow as she sips on her Powerade—the same drink I opted for. Who says we’re not meant to be? After a few bouts of silence, she finally says, “She’s going to tell everyone.”
A slow smile spreads across my face. She might put up a fight at first, but she knows when to concede. I like that about her.
I decide to tread lightly because it almost feels like Aubree has fallen into a state of shock.
“Yeah, she is.”
“People will think we’re together.” She stares blankly.
“Yup, that seems to be the consensus.”
“But we’re not together,” she says in a monotone.
“Not at the moment, but we are linked by land, so at least we have that going for us.”
She slowly turns her head to look at me. “But I don’t like you, so why would I say you were my boyfriend? That was stupid.” Uh-oh, this is what we call a spiral. “Like, who would believe that we’re dating? We don’t even know each other. This is like the fifth time I’ve seen you in person. I have no idea if you’re some sort of sick serial killer like in your books?—”
“Aw, you’ve read my books.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m being serious, Wyatt.”
“Well, rest assured, I’m not a sick serial killer. I just know a lot about it from countless hours of research, not experience. Just in case I need to really make that clear.”
She places her hand on her forehead. “I can’t make a retraction on my statement. I mean . . . you kissed my neck in front of her.”
“Nice touch, wasn’t it? I’m quick on my feet. For future references, was the kiss too much pressure? Just want to gauge what you like.”
“Do you really think that’s what I want to worry about at the moment? The pressure of your kiss?”
“Seems like vital information. What if I do it again, and next time, you squirm away from me because it was a featherlight kiss that creeped you out? You think I want people thinking you’re disgusted by my neck kisses?”
“Oh my God, Wyatt! There won’t be a next time.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Color me confused, but I can’t possibly see a scenario that doesn’t end in embarrassment where there isn’t a next time. What are you going to do? Spread a rumor about Regina George being slightly out of her mind and making things up?”
“Yes!” Aubree lights up, her eyes looking—dare I say it—a touch crazy. “That’s what we’ll say. Her pregnancy brain made up the whole thing.”
“Hold up,” I say as I hook her chin with my finger. “I might not know all of the womanly things, but I’m pretty sure that’s an offensive thing to do. She’s carrying a child. Let’s not use pregnancy brain as a default for her. Also, her husband was there. He saw everything, so if you try to spread that rumor, he’ll debunk it.”
“We blame his inaccuracy in storytelling on man brain.” Her eyes are still lit up. I’m going to need to dim those things down.
“You’re not wrong about man brain, but I don’t think we can tap into that scapegoat.” I tap my chin, thinking about it, then shake my head. “No, it’s going to be he said, she said, and right now, the points are not in your favor because your sister saw us together in the parking lot, Ryland saw us together last night, the people in The Hot Pickle saw us standing in line with my arm over your shoulders. All signs are leading to you being my special love dumpling.”
“Ew, do not call me that.”
“Not a fan? What about sugar plum?” Her nose curls. “Boobala? My aorta?” Her eyes focus in on me, making me nervous. “Snuggle bum? Moo Ma Me Ma?”
