His shoulders lift. “I kind of like it.”
Reluctantly, I kind of like it too.
“What does one wear to the Register of Deeds, anyway? Besidesnotpajamas.”
I’m rarely self-conscious about my wardrobe, especially around Bridger, but I don’t want to start my life as an Adams with a big faux pas.
“Well, I’m in joggers and a T-shirt,” he says, sweeping ahand down his body. “So … whatever you pick will be better than that.”
“Okay.” No need to point out how well he wears those joggers and T-shirt. “I’ll be quick,” I say, shuffling toward the bedroom.
“Take your time.” He nods toward the kitchen. “I’ll whip us up some breakfast while you get dressed.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Feeding my future bride is part of the deal,” he says. “Eggs and toast sound good?”
“Yes, please.” I grin. “Scrambled, if you can.”
“I can,” he says softly.
Whoa.
Irises. Competence. Butt. Eggs.
Beware of mud, kitten.
As it turns out, there is no dress code at the Register of Deeds.
The office is basically one long nondescript counter facing a row of beige plastic chairs. They’re bolted to the floor.
Do people really try to steal these chairs?
Bridger quietly fills out his portion of the forms, while I tighten my ponytail and fiddle with the straps of my sundress. My cardigan keeps slipping off my shoulder, and I trip over my sandals when a clerk named Mary with a beakish nose gestures us forward.
I’m acting like a woman in some romcom who’s about to enter into a marriage of convenience.
Meanwhile, Bridger remains completely calm. All broad shoulders and steady breathing.
Zero visible shakiness.
“Aren’t you at least a little nervous?” I whisper as we approach the clerk. He ignores me and smiles at Mary.
“Hello, there.” He hands over our paperwork, like this is an average errand for a Monday.
“Full legal name,” Mary says, tapping on her clerky keyboard.
“Bridger Jefferson Adams.” His voice is deep and rumbly. Strong enough that I almost feel it behind my ribs.
This man is going to be my husband.
Like,tomorrow.
“And you, miss?” Mary pushes her glasses up, blinking at me through her lenses.
“Loren Cane.”
“Middle name?”