Page 17 of The Reason I Married Him
“Well, I have no problem extending my stay, especially if things start going my way.”
Okay, I know what you must be thinking . . . are you really in Almond Bay about to propose to a woman who you barely know in exchange for some land?
The answer would be yes.
And before you judge me, hear me out. The other night, I was lying awake on Laurel’s couch, thinking about what I should do. Initially, I thought her whole plan was insane. Not only am I not in a position to even think about marrying someone else—still questioning if I’m even fucking loveable from how Cadance treated me—but I also thought the idea was absurd.
That was until I received a text from Wallace that night.
A picture of him and his girlfriend—for the life of me, I can’t remember her name, something like Banana. Anyway, he and Banana were smiling brightly, holding up her hand, showing off a diamond ring. Nothing in my life has ever made my balls shrivel up as fast as that picture did.
He’s engaged.
Which means he’s soon to be married.
You can imagine, desperation hit at 10:05 that night. I considered the plan, committed, backed out, looked at the picture of Wallace and Banana one more time, and then made the executive decision that I would make my way out to Almond Bay and strike a deal.
But being the author that I am, I know it won’t be that easy. I can’t just waltz into a small town and offer a woman I barely know a proposal of marriage in exchange for land. This isn’t a Hallmark Christmas movie.
This is real life.
Any good plotter worth their salt would understand that an abrupt and cold demand would come off brash, insulting, and very alpha male-esque, which some people enjoy. But what littleI know about Aubree is that she’s ornery, so it’s not something she’ll jump on board with. Not sure an alpha hero strongarming her into submission will work.
So . . . I thought it over. I wrote down notes, and I made a plan of attack.
Step one is to immerse myself in this town.
I need to make sure that everyone around me likes me so when I do make the proposition, she has no choice but to say yes. It will be hard for her to walk around town and not hear my name. People will ask, “Oh, have you spoken to Wyatt? He’s a great guy.”
And, “I was having some car troubles, and out of the blue, Wyatt helped me. He’s magnificent.”
And let’s not forget, “My brittle bones struggled with walking across the street by myself, but Wyatt, he carried me with his herculean strength. He’s dreamy.”
Okay, sure, those examples might be far-fetched—and sound a lot more like Laurel than me—but you get what I’m after.
Win them over, win her over.
See how that works? The likable guy is hard to say no to.
So last night, before I drove out here, I pulled out one of my empty notebooks and started plotting. I recalled everything Clarke ever told me about Almond Bay. One of the most significant things was the Peach Society—aka, the ladies who run the town. I recall Ethel being the ringleader, and I remember that because I was incredibly fascinated with the name of her inn—Five Six Seven Eight. I thought it was clever and funny and fit her perfectly.
She’s target number one.
Because she talks. She talks a lot. If she goes around town telling everyone that I’m the best guy she’s ever met, it will help me in the long run. Plant the seed and let it grow.
“Remind me, Wyatt, who is your brother?” Ethel asks.
“Clarke,” I answer. “Cassidy Rowley’s husband.”
An expression of sympathy passes over her face as she reaches across the check-in desk and takes my hand in hers. “Oh, I’m so sorry. When I heard about Clarke, I was devastated for Cassidy, and then when she passed. ..that poor little girl.” She touches her chest and shakes her head. “The kind of loss she has suffered. Are you here to help out?”
“I’m here to reconnect.”
If you’re wondering if I’m ashamed to say that, the answer would be yes. I know I’ve been out of the picture in MacKenzie’s life, but I’m hoping I can make genuine amends.
“Oh, that’s wonderful to hear. Will you be taking a vacation, or are you able to work while you’re here?” She releases my hand, and I stuff it in my pocket.
“I’m actually an author. Maybe you’ve heard of me. My pen name is W.J. Preston.”
