Page 35 of Marrying the Accidental Groom
He placed his hands on her shoulders, ducking down to put himself into her line of sight. “It will be, sweetheart. It’s going to be amazing. Everyone appreciates your hard work on this, but please remember that you don’t have to drive yourself crazy. This isn’t Buckingham Palace and there will be no international incident if there is something out of place.”
Juliana looked unconvinced but gave him a tight smile.
“It’s fine, Jules. No figs. Stick with your...cheddar pinwheels,” he said after a glance back at the table.
“Cheddarranchpinwheels,” she muttered.
His lips twitched with the hint of a smile he wouldn’t indulge, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Why did he find her attention to detail so adorable?
She wriggled out of his grasp and busied herself with the table again. Yeah, he was pretty sure she didn’t feel the same way about his lack thereof.
The doubts niggled as he picked up a new strand of lights and moved to the giant tree in the back corner. The big showstopper. They’d strung most of it already, but she’d found three more boxes from Mom’s Christmas closet labeled BIG TREE and she’d declared that she wanted those dealt with next.
The tree itself stood tall, decked out in creams and tans, with little wooden ornaments and that weird birdhouse his mom insisted on using every year. It was beautiful, in a rustic Christmas on the prairie kind of way. And when he looked at it now, he imagined Juliana standing next to it at thedance, clipboard finally put away, eyes bright, mouth tilted into something soft and real.
If she stuck around that long.
Gideon stepped back, rubbing a hand behind his neck as he watched her recalibrate every tray and label like the fate of the event depended on it. Maybe it did—at least in her mind. He’d figured she’d be gone by now, paperwork filed, mistake untangled. But each day she stuck around made the hope dig in deeper, and he hated how often he caught himself watching her for signs she was about to bolt. A sigh. A packed bag. A shift in tone. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
If she stayed through Christmas, maybe he’d finally believe she wasn’t looking for the exit. But right now? It felt like he was one mistimed suggestion away from reminding her why the two of them were never supposed to work in the first place.
He didn’t know what to do with this feeling. The wanting and the wondering if he was enough. If maybe this whole island accident was the best thing that had ever happened to him...and the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
Still, she hadn’t left.
For the past several weeks, she’d shown up. She’d joined him on trail rides with the tourists, hair tucked beneath a helmet as she bounced in the saddle with a stubborn kind of grace. She’d ridden shotgun on offroad ATV tours, holding onto the roll bar with one hand and swatting him with the trail map in the other whenever he veered off course just to see her scowl. And when he was off hauling hay or checking fence lines, she was hard at work helping his mom with the barn dance.
And she wasgood. Not just organized—though yeah, her clipboard probably had its own clipboard—but sharp. Focused. Bossy in that hot librarian sort of way. She and his mom handled nearly everything themselves, with only sporadic help from a few ranch hands, but somehow Juliana made it allrun like a well-oiled machine. When something went sideways—like an outlet on the fritz behind the big tree—she didn’t panic. She pivoted. Moved a few things around on her master plan, and suddenly it looked intentional. That kind of command and intensity? It should’ve annoyed him. Instead, it made him want to stand a little straighter. Maybe even follow instructions. Because the truth was, her bossiness wasn’t just attractive, it was kind of inspiring.
Even if she didn’t laugh at his jokes when she was in the zone.
Thanksgiving rolled around a few days later, and Gideon found himself in the tiny kitchen of his one-bedroom cabin on Wrangler Row with Juliana next to him. When she’d arrived at the beginning of November, he wasn’t sure she’d stick around to meet his family, let alone be the guest of honor at family Thanksgiving.
Her hip brushed his as she reached across him for the whisk, and the contact sent a jolt through his already frayed nerves. The cabin wasn’t built for two people—especially not two people with this much unresolved tension simmering under the surface like the butter in their cast iron skillet.
“You cannot just eyeball the broth,” she said, horror laced in every syllable as she gently wrestled the carton from his hand. “Stuffing is all about texture. Too dry, and it’s crouton casserole. Too wet, and we’re in sad Thanksgiving soup territory.”
“I was gonna add more if it looked off,” he said, leaning back against the counter to watch her. “I trust my instincts.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s what people say right before they ruin dinner.”
He grinned. “There is a box of stuffing in my pantry as a backup. See? I can contingency plan, too.”
She shook her head, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, a few wisps escaping to frame her face. She wore one of his old flannel shirts overher usual structured blouse, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He’d laughed when she asked for an apron, but he had to admit he didn’t mind this look one bit.
Something about having her in his space, surrounded by his things—most of which weren’t half as put together as she was—scrambled his brain. Her purse sat next to the boots by the door. Her tea mug was in the sink. She hummed under her breath as she chopped herbs. She didn’t belong here. Not in this cramped kitchen with its squeaky cabinet doors and drawers that never quite closed. But she also did. In some strange, messed-up miracle of timing and marriage licenses, she was here. And he couldn’t stop wanting her to stay.
He turned to grab the pan and bumped her shoulder. “Sorry.”
“My bad,” she muttered, taking exactly one step away to reestablish their two-foot buffer zone.
There it was again. The retreat.
Always one step back. Like she couldn’t quite let him in.
He set the pan down and turned slowly. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
