Page 111 of The Reason I Married Him
Chapter Twelve
WYATT
“I like your shorts,” I say as Aubree walks out of the bathroom in her work outfit for the day. She’s wearing jean shorts frayed at the hem and folded over at the waist. She paired them with a black tank top, put her hair up in a large bun on the top of her head, and tied off the strays with a bandanna.
She glances down at her shorts and then back at me. “They’re regular shorts,” she replies, looking confused.
“They’re nice,” I reply.
She eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”
“What? I can’t compliment my wife’s shorts?”
She holds up a finger. “One, I’m not your wife.” She holds up another finger. “And two, these shorts are a decade old, and nothing is nice about them.”
“Well, I think they’re nice.”
She mumbles something I don’t hear under her breath and then starts making herself a mug of coffee.
Last night, I threw up a Hail Mary. I do not doubt that Aubree has been hurt, damaged terribly by men in her past.She’s so skittish, and I hate it. I hate that she feels she needs to be stiff around me and seems to be thinking all the time rather than relaxing. That she feels like she doesn’t need affection. I wish she could just let loose, have fun, and stop trying to be so perfect all the fucking time. So last night, even though I knew she wasn’t into touching and affection, I pushed the envelope and attempted something I had no right to try. But I couldn’t let our first night in the same bed be one that left a bad taste in her mouth.
I didn’t want her lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, motionless and scared.She’s so isolated. Emotionally.Even though we’re moving into a contractual obligation with each other, I am, if not anything else, a damn good friend. I have always been affectionate, something I got from my parents, and I know the power of a good hug.
Hopefully, I’ll become someone she can rely on and lean into for supportwhen she needs it. Someone other than her siblings who have their own lives and their own worries. I want her to know that I can be a rock of support.
So I thought spooning her might be a good place to start.
I assumed that it would be a five-second thing, and she’d wiggle away, but she didn’t.
Instead, I was shocked.
I felt her relax.
I felt her breath fall in line with mine.
I felt her slowly fall asleep and followed quickly after.
I woke up this morning in the same position, holding her, her tucked in tight to her pillow. Neither one of us moved or attempted any other position.
I considered getting up and going for a run. Even thought about showering, but I didn’t want to leave the bed, where she’d wake up by herself. I wanted her to know that I was still there for her. The entire night, I protected her.
And that was what happened—she woke up in my arms, went completely stiff when she realized it, and then slid out of bed and went straight to the bathroom.
So . . . magical morning.
“What are you up to today?” I ask her while she sits on the edge of the bed and puts on her socks.
“Working,” she says.
“Great, just what I was hoping.” When she was in the bathroom getting changed, so was I. I’m ready in my work clothes, a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt. I also made the bed when she was in the bathroom. “What are we working on today?”
“We?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at me. “What makes you think this is a we moment?”
“Um, well, who else would I be working with?”
“Maybe yourself. Don’t you have that stepson lover book to write?”
“Nothing is due for a while, so I’m free. Come on, this is our farm, technically. Tell me how I can help.”
