Page 78 of The Reason I Married Him
“Why?” I ask, confused.
“Because I think it would be good for you and so people can see us around town. I can make a reservation. I’ll pick you up.”
“I can just meet you in town, so there’s no need to drive all the way out here for no reason.”
“Aubree—”
I hold up my hand. “I can drive, Wyatt. I’ll meet you at the inn, and we can walk to wherever from there.”
“Fine,” he says, capitulating, which is kind of funny because it appears very painful for him. “Be at the inn around six. Does that work?”
“Yes.” And before he can leave, I ask, “You’re not expecting me to dress all fancy for you, are you?”
That makes him grin. He leans in and cups my chin. “Wear whatever you want to wear . . . wife. I’ll proudly walk with you on my arm.” And then he takes off, an extra pep in his step.
Why do I fear that I just made a big mistake . . . but also, possibly a great decision?
Between you and me,it took me two hours to get ready.
I know what you’re thinking. Why on earth are you taking two hours to get ready for a simple date?It’s called overthinking. Every outfit I put on felt too conservative, too dressed up, or too revealing. Something was wrong with every article of clothing I owned, so much so that I almost contacted Hattie to ask her for something to wear, but then I realized how absurd that would be, so I skipped out on that idea.
I settled for a simple red sundress with sleeves and a pair of sandals.
When doing my hair, I went back and forth between curling it or letting the natural curls take over with a little help from mousse. I went with the natural style. Curling my hair would have made it seem like I was trying too hard, and I don’t want him to think I was eager to impress him.
Because I’m not.
I put on some light makeup, a small dab of gloss on my lips, and then headed out the door so I wouldn’t analyze myself any more than I needed to.
And now that I’ve parked my car and am walking up the front steps of the inn, I’m starting to second-guess everything about this arrangement. I don’t do well with situations like this. The last time I was out on a date was with Matt, and I think we all know how that went. And even though this isn’t really a date, we have to treat it like a date, and that makes me nauseous and nervous and all the things in between.
“Oh hello, dear, don’t you look lovely,” Ethel says, startling me out of my thoughts. Wearing one of her many kaftans, Ethel is perched in her rocking chair, iced tea in hand, and surveying the town.
“Hey, Ethel,” I say.
“Are you here to pick up your man?”
Here we go . . .
“Yes,” I answer. “We’re going to dinner.”
“How lovely.” She sips her tea. “It’s so nice to see you out and about, all gussied up.” Not too gussied up, just not wearing dirt-dusted clothes.
“Well, figured I could kick the boots for some sandals tonight,” I say, feeling so freaking awkward, like I’m talking to the parent before the date.
“You did a lovely job, and from here, I can smell your beautiful perfume.” I swear I only did two spritzes. “Is that gardenias?” She sniffs the air.
“Uh, not sure. I just liked the smell of it and bought it.”
“I believe that’s gardenias. Do you know what they symbolize?”
If she says it’s some sort of sexed-up aphrodisiac, I’m rinsing myself in the bathroom.
“Not sure,” I answer.
She sips her tea again and stares out at the quiet road. “Purity and gentleness.”
Oh-kay.
