I tip my chin. Waiting.
“I believe he was your father’s doctor?”
The air freezes in my lungs. “Foster.”
“Yes. That’s him.” Her shoulders straighten. Satisfied. “He seemed quite surprised to learn you were married.”
I swallow. “Yes, well. Foster and I used to be engaged.”
Margaret’s shoulders are coat-hanger stiff. “So I gathered.”
I return my focus to folding, then I gently set another napkin on the mat across from me. “You already knew about my engagement, though, didn't you? Before today, I mean.” I bring my gaze up to hers. “That must’ve come up in all your research.”
She stills. “I knew.”
“Right. Well.” I draw in a long steadying breath. Exhale. “Then you should also know, Foster is completely in the past now. Your son is my entire future. Our future is together. So if you’re afraid I might be?—”
“I’m not,” she interrupts.
“Oh.” I blink, too stunned to speak for a moment. “I guess I just figured you wouldn’t love the fact that I’d been planning to marry someone else. This time last year, in fact.”
She arches a brow. “That’s very direct of you.”
“I’m direct,” I say. “When I’m not feeling blindsided. Or judged.”
She rests a hand on the back of a chair. “You needn’t worry, Loren.”
My stomach tightens anyway. “About what?”
“It’s clear to me that you and my son care about each other. Deeply.”
I grab the third napkin, and my heart squeezes. “We do.”
“You know, he defended you quite thoroughly today.” Her brow crooks. “There were strong words exchanged. Even threats of physicality. Bridger was doing his best to control himself, but if I hadn’t intervened …”
My pulse picks up, and my heart is a throb against my ribs. “You can’t leave me hanging like that, Margaret.”
Her lip twitches. “I’m afraid poor Dr. Abel would’ve needed a great deal of medical attention himself.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then we both start laughing.
If surviving the rest of the evening were an Olympic event, Bridger and I would take home the gold. We eat dinner in the dining room, read in the study, then queue up a movie in the home theater.
Garfield.
Naturally.
Margaret doesn’t protest a single suggestion. In fact, she’s oddly cooperative, all while keeping an observant eye on us. Constantly. For our parts, Bridger and I make the show worth watching. The thing is, pretending we have feelings for each other, which we both know now are real, is … weird. And tiring. Luckily, I have a man-sized pillow perfect for my weary head. It’s Bridger.
He’s the pillow.
By the following morning, I’ve pretty much mastered the art of ignoring that I slept wrapped around him like a baby sloth. On a Great Dane.
Progress.
We brush our teeth, finger-comb our hair, and throw on casual clothes, preparing for another full day with Margaret. Ithink even Sayla would be proud of our performance. Except what we’re doing isn’t acting anymore.