Page 54 of Marrying the Accidental Groom
She blinked at it, laughed once, and found she couldn’t stop. The laugh dissolved into a cough and then into a few helplesstears she tried and failed to swipe away. “I hate being sick,” she muttered, as if that were new information. “I hate not being able to fix it.”
He sat back down, forearms on his thighs, eyes steady on hers. “You don’t have to fix it.”
“I know.” She tipped the mug to hide. “That’s the hateful part.”
They were quiet for a minute.
“Do you want to pray?” he asked with no trace of the awkwardness she would have felt asking the same question. “I can, if your throat’s done with words.”
The question punched straight through her defenses and landed where the certainty had started to root. Back on Tealua, prayer had been desperation. Lately, it had been something else. Not a lever to pull, but a seat to sink into.
She nodded. He took her hand like it was the simplest, most normal thing in the world and bowed his head. His prayer was unadorned—thank You for Juliana, help her breathe, heal what’s broken, grant peace about decisions—and by the time he said amen, the pressure in her chest had shifted. Not gone. Less bossy.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Anytime.” He squeezed her fingers and let go. “If you finish this, I’ll consider allowing you to review the tea schedule.”
“I’m not touching whatever you call a tea schedule,” she said, suspicious.
He fished in his back pocket and pulled out an index card, the front of it covered in big block letters and tiny doodles of turtles and pineapples.Hydrate every 30 minuteswith a little turtle reminding her to go slow.Steam 10 minuteswith a stick-figure pineapple in sunglasses. She stared at it, mortified by the way her heart did something enormous and unprofessional.
“You made me a visual aid?”
“I made you art,” he said solemnly. “Please respect the gallery.”
She had to look away before she did something dramatic, like cry into the broth. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You said that when we got on the pineapple truck.”
A knock sounded—a firm, practiced rap that had never once been used on this door. Juliana’s body reacted before her brain caught up: shoulders braced, stomach dipped, that old pre-party adrenaline that often preceded disaster rising like a reflex.
Gideon went still. “Expecting someone?”
“No.” Her voice came out thin. “Are you?”
He shook his head and set the mug down. “Stay,” he said, a gentle order that somehow soothed instead of rankled. He crossed to the door and pulled it open.
Cold air spilled in alongside a familiar perfume that didn’t belong in a mountain cabin. Juliana didn’t have to see her mother to know who stood on the stoop. She could feel the shape of that presence in her bones.
“Hello,” her mother said brightly, the kind of brightness that could cut glass. “I do hope this is a good time. I’m looking for my daughter.”
Gideon glanced back at Juliana. The question in his eyes wasn’tdo you want me to handle this?butdo you want privacy?She swallowed, unsure her voice would cooperate, and gave a small, shaky nod.
He understood. Of course he did.
“I’ll...give you two the room,” he said gently. “I’ll be in back.”
He brushed a knuckle along Juliana’s shoulder as he passed. Then he slipped down the short hall, leaving her wrapped in his flannel and the scent of eucalyptus, bracing herself for a conversation she hadn’t wanted and the test she suddenly, sorely hoped she could pass.
Juliana tugged the blanket tighter around herself, but it didn’t stop the chill that came with her mother’s entrance. Her mom’s perfume hit first. Then the heels. Clicking against the wood floors like they had every right to echo here.
Her mother’s gaze swept the room in a single practiced glance, the kind she used at charity galas to size up whether the centerpieces were up to par. “So, this is where you’ve been hiding.”
Juliana wanted to point out that she wasn’t hiding, she was sick. But no defense would matter. Her mom always interpreted things to her own narrative. “I didn’t know you were coming.” Her voice was hoarse, but she held her chin level.
“I didn’t exactly have confidence you’d invite me,” her mom replied coolly, unbuttoning her coat and draping it neatly over the nearest chair. “But when I heard...well. I couldn’t sit by while you threw away everything we’ve worked for.”
Juliana’s stomach twisted. Not from the flu this time. The words sounded familiar, but her mom was hiding something.
