Page 55 of Marry Me Tomorrow

Maybe Samson’s onto something.

Chapter 23

Trent

“There’s supposed to be bad weather tonight,” I say, glancing out the lodge’s wide front window as heavy gray clouds creep toward the horizon. “So I’m closing up the marina early. I’ve already let the rentals know to keep an eye out tonight.”

“Do you need me to help with anything?” Jenny asks, her voice light but with a tinge of concern.

“No, I’ve gotten most things done, I just need to do some paperwork, then I’ll be heading back to the house.”

“Alright, I’ll be painting in my cabin if you need me,” she says as she slings her bag over her shoulder and makes her way out of the lodge.

I watch her leave, the swing of her bag matching her stride as she crosses the gravel path toward the tree-lined trail. A warm breeze stirs the air, carrying the faint, earthy scent of rain. As she disappears into the woods, a thought strikes me like a bolt of lightning: I should build her a painting cabin closer to the house.

The notion makes me freeze. It’s not just a practical idea—it feels like permanence, something I shouldn’t be contemplating about Jenny. Not when this arrangement is meant to be temporary.

Shaking off the thought, I head back to my desk stopping first at Greg’s office. “Can you add something to the website about our early closure today? Include links to emergency services and the ‘what to do in an emergency’ FAQs. We’ve got a few residents in the cabins, and I want them to have all the resources they may need.”

“Already on it,” Greg replies, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “Just putting some finishing touches, and it will be live. Then I’m going to head on over to the bakery and help Holly wrap things up. Don’t stay too late—it’s looking nasty out there, like it’s going to hit right over us tonight.”

“Not looking good,” I agree. “I’ll be out of here in an hour or so.”

Back in my office, I bury myself in the accounts and scheduling for the week ahead. The rhythmic pulsing of the wind against the windows begins softly, building as the storm draws closer. By the time I finish, the trees are swaying as the wind howls. I switch off the lights in the lodge, pin a paper with emergency contacts to the front door, and lock up.

I’ll have my cell on all night in case anyone needs me. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a bad storm hit Chessie Valley, and hopefully it will avoid us tonight as well.

I start to head toward the house, but my gut tells me to check on Jenny. I have a feeling that she’s still in her painting cabin.

After walking around the lodge and down the walkway, I’m proven right. For a moment, I can’t help watching her. Jenny in her paint-splattered overalls, her hair loose and curling slightly from the dampness in the air. Her lips move faintly as if she’s humming to herself, completely immersed.

Watching her is like watching a composer creating a musical masterpiece, her emotions on full display in the work she creates. It’s mesmerizing, and I don’t want the moment to end.

A crack of lightning breaks me out of my trance, and I quickly open the cabin door. “The storm is supposed to hit soon,” I say with some urgency.

She jumps slightly, turning to me with wide eyes and then looking out the window. “That doesn’t look good,” she says. “How long have I been out here? I only meant to paint for an hour.” She looks over at her wall clock and her jaw drops. “Oh no, I didn’t mean to stay out this long.”

“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “I just finished up at the lodge and thought I’d check to see if you were ready to head back home.”

She nods, hastily packing up her paints and brushes. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

As we leave the cabin, the first fat raindrops splatter against the earth. We’re halfway back to the house, just passing out of the woods, before the skies open up and unleash a downpour of water on us. The rain is icy against my skin, soaking us through in seconds.

We exchange wide-eyed looks and run toward the house. But the wet grass turns treacherous. I slip, landing hard. Jenny turns back to help me.

“Go on!” I shout over the storm. “I’ll catch up!”

“No way! I’m not leaving my husband,” she yells.

Though the storm is intensifying, I can’t help but feel relieved hearing her say those words.

“Here, take my hand,” she yells. Lightning flashes, illuminating her determined expression. As I grab her hand, she jolts at a crack of thunder. “I appreciate the lightning better when I’m inside,” she says, breathless, her hair plastered to her face.

“Come on,” I say, standing. “Let’s get inside before we drown out here.”

Holding her hand in mine, we make it the rest of the way into our house. Jenny lets out a sigh of relief as we step into the warmth. Even drenched to the bone, she is stunning. This beautiful, smart, kind, sexy woman is my wife.

“Hold on,” I say, “I’ll get us some towels.” I kick off my shoes and head for the bathroom. When I return, I stop short. Jenny’s fingers work through the damp strands of her loosened braid, untangling it with practiced ease. Her clothes cling to her, soaked through from the storm, while flashes of lightning spill through the window, illuminating her in short, radiant bursts. The glow frames her figure, ethereal and striking, as if the storm itself conspires to make her look like a goddess.

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