“I’m still waiting for the good news,” Loren says, shifting her weight, her eyes darting to the flowers.
“She didn’t come here herself,” I say. “The roses are kind of like an ambassador, which means we won’t have to engage with her. We can even throw the flowers away if we want.”
“Ha!” Loren squawks. “You and I have a different definition of the word good.”
True story.
And now there’s probably no way for me to convince my wife that we’ll ever be completely out from under my mother’s thumb. If Loren hadn’t been questioning the wisdom of our marriage before, she probably is now.
To be fair, I wouldn’t blame her.
“You’re safe with me,” I say. “I promise.”
She heaves a sigh. “I know that intellectually,” she says. “I just … I don’t like it.”
“Yeah.” I smirk. “You just summed up my entire life in four words.”
For the record, this is not a thriller novel, and Margaret Adams isn’t some assassin, dropping clues before she takes us out. Still, her mental gameplay is elite. The flowers are a signal that she’s fully aware of all our movements. This is her way of taking back control.
Delightful, right?
She hates to lose, and her delivery was supposed to be a checkmate. But Loren and I already won in all the ways that matter. The two of us are united on this front. We have each other’s backs in the battle.
And my mother has no one.
“If it makes you feel better,” I say, “I talked to my lawyer.” That’s what I’d been doing when the flowers arrived. “And according to the exact wording of the trust, we’re in full compliance.”
Loren’s lip crawls under her teeth. “For sure?”
“Yep.” I bob my head. “I had to get married before I turned thirty, and my birthday is still weeks away.”
“Overachiever," she says. “As usual.” Her lip quirks, which I’ll take as a sign that she isn’t completely terrified. Disconcerted, maybe. Even a little scared. But I won’t let anyonetraumatize my wife.
Especially my mother.
“So you really don’t think she’s coming?” Loren’s eyes flit to the flowers.
“She would’ve been here already.”
“I’m still not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” She glances at the door, and my chest tightens.
“Hey.” I reach for her arm, gently cupping her elbow. “I would never let anything happen to you.Ever.” My promise comes out low and guttural, the emotion originating from the depths of me. It’s primal. Elemental.
I’d protect this woman with my life.
“I believe you,” she says softly, and her gaze slides to mine. She looks so small. So vulnerable. And going to our separate corners now—on separate floors—feels like an impossibility.
“Want to put on pajamas and fall asleep in front of the TV again?”
She nods.
“Except maybe in the media room this time,” I say. “Bigger couch.”
“Yes, please. To both.”
So we do.
“Good morning, Mr. Adams.”