Page 44 of Merging Wright

“Who better to dispel the gossip than the source,” I joke.

“We don’t want our gossip dispelled. We want to gab,” Camilla teases. She lifts her hand and motions like an alligator chomping. Yack. Yack. Yack. The message is clear—get out.

“I’ll go change,” I mutter. Mach and I made arrangements with Tucker and Mae to send us each a box of clothing. My sister sent me only casual wear, which is no surprise from her. Jeans. T-shirts. Flannel shirts. The attire is something Mae wears to her garden center, but I wanted to present a professional front to Wrightwood. Unfortunately, unless I wanted to invest in an entirely new wardrobe, business casual is my new look.

Wearing jeans, ankle boots, and a cotton blazer over a T-shirt, I walk beside Mach down the hill to town.

Our marriage is only a week old. I have fifty-one more weeks to endure. The idea of perseverance versus passion in a marriage is daunting. I’d wanted to get married someday to someone, but my current situation was never what I had in mind. And while I didn’t date anyone after Ripley shredded my heart, my strange attraction to Mach reminded me I could still have feelings. Stupid feelings. Even walking down the hill, everything in me screams to hold Mach’s hand. I want his assurance we can do this. We can pull off this farce as a team. As partners.

“We should consider getting our own place,” I blurt. We need separation from his mother and space from each other. After Myles found me on the couch and Mach acted like something was going on when it wasn’t, I fell back on the cushions and returned to sleep. But I don’t want to sleep on a couch for fifty-one more weeks. And I can’t come to bed as my husband requested, only to wind up holding hands or hooking ankles.

“We aren’t getting our own place.” Mach’s tone is sharp, snide even.

“Let me rephrase then. I need to get a place.” I continue walking but Mach has stopped short. Spinning to face him, I cross my arms preparing for battle.

“You are not moving out.” An edge I’ve never heard fills his voice. “You are not leaving me.”

“I’m not leaving.” I swipe a hand through my hair which is long and loose tonight. “But I need some space.” A two-bedroom rental would be plenty big enough for a year.

“We’re married. How would it look for you to live separately from me?” Mach’s eyes narrow.

“How would it look?” I choke, incredulous. It will look like the truth. We’re married in name only.

“We need to present a united front. If we want to rebuild the town, we need to think about morale. We”—He waves between us—“are in this together.”

“But we aren’t together.” I stare at Mach as his eyes widen. An entire conversation happens from the depths of those dark eyes. A conversation that is one sided and unspoken. Speaking of morale, though, this employee’s spirit is dying inside.

“You aren’t getting a separate place.” Mach steps closer to me, scooping a section of my hair behind my ear. His fingers curl around the fine hairs near my neck. His voice softens. “We’ll get things settled and then be out of here in a few more weeks.”

Then why did we have Mae and Tucker ship us clothing? And how will someone else handle all that needs to be completed? And what if I don’t want to leave Wrightwood? This project is unlike anything we’ve ever done. Rebranding a town might be more in our wheelhouse than renovating one, but the potential to rebuild, restore, rejuvenate the entire community has something refreshing bubbling inside me. I’m energized in a way I haven’t been in a long time. A way I hadn’t noticed meant something was missing in me before. With partnership as my only goal at Impact, I’m growing stagnant in my job.

And I’m not certain I want that partnership anymore.

“Don’t give up on me yet, Jane.” Mach turns his head to the side, eyes focused on the dimming light of the evening. His thumb continues to stroke the column of my throat. The gentle plea settles my racing heart, making me believe he needs me.

Baa! Stupid sheep.

Entering Trophy’s, Mach is immediately accosted by a sharp squeal and female arms wrapping around his neck. The woman jiggles up and down against him like a vibrating toy.

“I’m so excited to see you,” she squeaks at his ear before gripping his shoulders, stepping back, and looking him in the face.

“Charlese Frasier?” Mach’s eyes widen as he stares at the woman. His expression turns to ash like he’s seeing a ghost.

“I’m so sorry about Fischer. I wasn’t able to attend the funeral, but I’ve heard about your inheritance.” She whistles. “What a dick, that old man.”

Mach’s gaze seeks mine over Charlese’s head. Do we have the same thought? What do people know about his inheritance? Do the townsfolk know that marriage was a stipulation in helping them? Regardless, Mach is married but the way Charlese strokes Mach’s arms, refusing to release him, fills my belly with a sickening sensation. The title of wife means nothing to him other than a means to an end. He’s married. He rebuilds a town. He inherits money.

“I’m so sorry,” Charlese says again. Her tone softens, and her voice cracks. The intensity in her second round of sympathy is a shift from Fischer’s death to an apology for something else.

Mach returns his attention to Charlese before tipping his head in my direction. “Charlese, this is my wife, Jane.”

“Your—” Charlese twists while still gripping one of Mach’s arms. A wide smile beams at me, and then she’s tugging me into a tight embrace, jostling up and down against me.

My, she’s enthusiastic.

“I’m so freaking excited for you.” She pulls away from me and faces Mach. “You have a wife.” She glances back at me. “You are his wife.”

Yes, it seems we’ve established Mach has a wife. What I don’t understand is her enthusiasm or the pinched note in her voice as if she’s convincing herself she’s pleased. Maybe she’s confirming the notion. Maybe she’s surprised because she knows a truth I don’t.