My shoulders sag with relief, and I wipe my hands on my jeans. “How about all of them?”
He stops scrolling. Looks at me. “Everything?”
“Sure.” My shoulders lift. “That was the whole point. She wants proof we’re legitimate? We’ll bury her in evidence.”
“Without actually killing her.” He arches a brow. “Unless we absolutelyhaveto.”
“Don’t say that.” I swat his arm.
“Sorry, but you don’t know Margaret. She’s a real piece ofwork.” He pauses for a chuckle. “Luckily, Sayla did her job so well, I’m guessing you’ll never have the displeasure of meeting your mother-in-law.” He smirks. “I dare that woman to try to convince any board our marriage isn’t legitimate.”
“I love that Sayla ended the first video on a close-up of our wedding license. Did you even know Susan had a last name?”
His mouth quirks. “Well, I hired her, so.”
“I was just calling her Susan Pantsuit in my head. Then again, my mind was preoccupied.”
“I hear that happens to brides. Surprise or otherwise.”
I tip my chin and ignore the churn in my stomach. “So, should we go ahead and send the link to your mom? After all, Dex did give Sayla’s work a ten out of ten, no notes.”
“A true rarity.” Bridger nods, calling up the contacts on his phone. “Yep. Let’s do this. Margaret Adams … there you are.” His thumbs fumble out a quick text. “Annnnd send.”
“Wow.” A shaky laugh slips out of me. “What did you say?”
He hands me his phone, and my heart flutters.
Five words.
Introducing the newest Mrs. Adams.
To be honest, my biggest fear was Bridger’s mom coming back with an immediate rebuttal—demanding more proof, questioning the legitimacy of our wedding.
What we got was worse.
Radio silence.
For hours.
To distract ourselves, we grab dinner from Hickory Grill, then we head back to our castle-house to watch another couple of episodes ofSurprise Bride.
Still nothing.
Midway through another couple’s wedding vows, I catch Bridger checking his phone for the umpteenth time. Half of his sweet potato fries are still on his plate. Which really says something. The man loves sweet potato fries.
The screen illuminates fresh furrows on his forehead. Dex has texted. Sayla has texted. But not one word from the original Mrs. Adams.
“Maybe we did kill her,” I joke, trying to keep the mood light. We could both use a little less heaviness after the recent whirlwind of our lives. But Bridger clenches his teeth.
“No. This is what she does.”
An ache spreads through me, sharp and swift, spurred on by the realization that the relationship I had with my mother couldn’t have been more different than the one Bridger has with his.
Elise Cane always made me feel cherished for who I was. No conditions or strings. My worth existed simply becauseIexisted.
But a clearer picture is forming for me now of exactly who Margaret Adams is, and why Bridger stepped out from under her sphere of influence the moment he could.
I can’t quite shake the guilt over dragging him back into her orbit.