Page 53 of Marrying the Accidental Groom
Thank the Lord for that. Juliana pushed herself up against the armrest. The pillow smelled like cedar and laundry soap and something unmistakably Gideon. He’d cracked the window to let in a whisper of cold air, and the contrast of the steam against her cheeks and the winter breath in her lungs felt oddly luxurious.
“Careful,” he warned, settling on the edge of the couch cushion, “it’s super hot.”
“So am I,” she muttered, then immediately regretted it as his eyebrows shot up, eyes twinkling.
“Yeah, you are.” His words brought a snort of laughter that set off a minute-long coughing fit. How the man could flirt with her when her hair was plastered to her sweaty forehead and she hadn’t showered in two days, she would never understand.
After she could breathe again, she took a cautious sip. “Okay,” she conceded, tipping her spoon at him. “You get points.”
“For the soup or for the joke you didn’t mean to make?”
“For the soup.” She dabbed at her nose with the crumpled tissue. “And for...this.”
His gaze softened. “This?”
“The...fussing,” she said, vague on purpose. He’d tucked the flannel around her—his flannel, swallowed in his smell—propped her up with an offensive number of pillows, queued up a kettle on the wood stove like a pioneer with Wi-Fi, and turned his favorite beanie into a hot water bottle cozy. He had not, in fact, mocked her list labeled “flu protocol” on her notepad, even after she’d given up on it at hour two.
He pretended not to notice the mist in her eyes. “I’m a world-class fusser,” he said lightly. He pointed toward the mug. “Magic tea. Ginger, honey, and some lemon.”
She took the mug. It was hot enough to make her palms hum. “What’s the dosage? One sip every ten minutes? Or do I just chug until I start believing in essential oils?”
“Just drink until your sarcasm gauge returns to factory settings.”
“Tragic. I’m pretty sure it’s never going back. I’ve been more sarcastic in the last four weeks here than I’ve ever been.”
“Only out loud. I have a feeling it was always there inside you.” He adjusted the throw at her feet. “Thermometer says you’ve dropped a degree.”
“Thermometer is a liar,” she said, but softer. The truth was, she felt a tiny bit less like she’d been run over by a herd of decorative reindeer.
“You should be at work,” she murmured. The cabin’s clock ticked, the only sound besides the wind whipping over the eaves. “Tours. Trails. Whatever reckless thing you were going to talk me into today.”
“Already canceled,” he said, unbothered. He gently brushed a damp strand of hair off her forehead, then rested the back of his fingers there like a farmhouse thermometer. His touch was cool. Familiar. “I wanted to be here.”
Her throat went tight around a lump that had nothing to do with congestion. “If I admit this is nice, will you use it against me later?”
“Obviously,” he said. “I’ll cite the now established case law. Reynolds v. Reynolds: The Great Soup Precedent.”
“Not legally binding,” she said automatically, then wished she could reach out and take the words back. Binding. Not binding. The vocabulary of the last few months had burrowed under her skin and taken up permanent residence.
He didn’t flinch. “No law talk tonight,” he said, voice easy. “Just flu and tea and maybe one Christmas movie where thesmall town saves the big city girl through the power of caroling and a man in a flannel.”
“Sounds contrived,” she murmured.
“You love contrived,” he said, then tilted his head. “Okay, you love executed.”
She snorted and regretted it as it triggered a coughing fit. He took the bowl, set it aside, and handed her the mug again, palm steady against her shoulder as if he could anchor her coughs away. When the fit passed, he didn’t comment on the tear that had escaped or the ridiculous trumpeting sound the tissue made. He just rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades until her ribs stopped protesting.
Her mind kept trying to sprint laps it didn’t have the oxygen for.Harrison Hotelsflashed across the inside of her skull like a neon sign. Scottsdale in February. Event Excellence division. A tidy salary and a tidy life. She should have been spinning with it. She’d been spinning for days.
Instead, she stared at the steam rising from the mug and realized, with a little jolt of betrayal, that a picture had started to form behind the neon. A different kind of tidy. Gideon’s boots by the door and her heels mostly collecting dust. The Triple R chapel at sunset. A pot on a stove because he swore peppermint could cure anything. A calendar that still had lists but left room for detours.
She was not built for detours. Except, apparently, she now . . . was?
“Penny for your thoughts,” he said softly, as if he could see the cogs grinding.
“Inflation,” she rasped. “You owe me at least a dollar.”
“Deal.” He dug into the pocket of his worn jeans and set an actual crumpled dollar on her tray, deadpan. “Now talk.”
