Mrs. Matched | Complete

Chapter Twenty-Six

The dinner he made me -- some kind of pasta with white wine sauce and chicken -- was so delicious I asked for more and then hid the leftovers in the fridge for the next day. When that was cleaned up, he led me around the side of the house to a little clearing with a fire pit and handed me a long skinny stick and a marshmallow.

"What am I going to do with this? Make a flag?"

"You're going to roast a marshmallow?" He looked back at me and then laughed. "Oh, joke. Sorry. I was going to ask why you didn't know what a s'more was."

"I was born in this country so I've heard of a s'more. But I can't say I've ever used an actual stick. We have those two pronged metal things."

"Well, here in the forest we use sticks. Can you grab me the newspaper there?"

It's a good thing he knows how to build a fire because honestly I would be dead out here alone. Well, maybe not, because that house really doesn't require anyone to build a fire.

There was barely any wind that deep in the forest, but the little breeze that did penetrate our meadow blew gently as though to stoke the fire that Chris was making. The sleeves on his deep green sweater were pushed up to his elbows as he lit the kindling with a match.

"Do you come up here a lot?"

"Hmm?" He looked up from the fire for a second before returning to make sure the small twigs caught fire. "No, I don't come up here as much as I would like. I do like it up here, though. It's quiet and supremely beautiful. I'll show you tomorrow but the hiking is even prettier than this clearing."

"Impossible."

"You'd think so, but no."

I squished the marshmallow onto the end of my pointy stick and sat down on one of the logs surrounding the fire pit. And it wasn't a metal contraption made to look like a log like the ones my parents had. No, it was an actual piece of wood sitting on the ground. If it weren't for the large mansion sitting behind me, I would have said I was camping.

"Chris?" I asked as we were resting our marshmallows above the fire. "Do you have any hot dogs?"

"We just ate. Are you still hungry?"

"Not really. It's just a thing I always used to do when I was little and I wanna try it again."

It didn't even take him five minutes to return with one solitary hotdog and yet another pointy stick. "This okay?"

He didn't even ask me a hundred questions. He just got up and retrieved my hotdog. Who does that?

"Why did you do that?" Actually slipped out of my mouth and into the space between us that I couldn't take back. Hopefully the fire crackling would drown it out.

"Why did I what?" He didn't take his eyes of his own marshmallow, roasting over the fire.

"Why did you just get me a hotdog after I said I wasn't hungry?"

"Because you said you wanted it?" He looked up at me, brows knit together, marshmallow starting to burn over the fire.

Yes, but I didn't need it. Why was this man always doing things for me?

"Chris! The marshmallow!" I shouted when the thing actually caught fire.

After some yelling – on my part – and a fair bit of stomping from him, the marshmallow and accompanying stick were free of flames, mere charcoal laying on the ground at the foot of a nearby tree.

"Aubrey." He abandoned his marshmallow corpse and crossed the fire pit, kneeling in front of me and offering me his hands, which I took. He stared into my eyes so deeply I was certain I could see his childhood hopes and dreams staring back at me. "Aubrey, you are my wife. No matter what happens from this moment onward I will always do what it takes to protect you and make you happy. I know I haven't been the best at putting you before me but I promise to try."

What on earth does a person say back to that? How do I--?

"You don't have to say anything. Let's just get you this hotdog." Taking the stick from where I stabbed it into the ground when the marshmallow caught fire, he gently sat down on the wet ground beside me and held the hotdog over the fire, humming a light tune I recognized but couldn't quite place.

Was it possible that he genuinely wanted to be married to me? Is that what a handful more years to prepare does to a person?

We stayed that way, him humming a tune and roasting a hotdog and me staring at the way his hair fell into his face, until my second dinner was perfectly prepared.

"What now?" he asked, holding it out to me.

"Now I eat it."

"That's it?"

"Well, first I have to let it cool." I grabbed the stick and stabbed the ground with it once more. "Come on. Let's go find something warm to drink. I'm partial to cocoa but I'll take tea if that's what you have."

"I have both," he trailed behind me. "But you don't have to do it."

"You know, this marriage is going to be pretty messy if you never let me do anything nice for you." Where did that come from? This marriage is supposed to be over in less than a week.

"How do you feel about this, by the way?" I kept my eyes firmly on the kettle in front of me as I spoke, not wanting to see his reactions. "This whole parental match thing. I know we talked a lot about me but you haven't said much."

"I told you the whole story, Aubrey."

"You told me how it happened, not how it felt."

His small gasp makes me turn around, thinking he's injured himself on something. When I do, he stood in front of me, staring at my face. Just staring.

"I..." he shook his head. "I thought that was obvious. Wow, I really do have work to do." His hand is halfway between his face and my own. "May I?"

"What?"

"Your hair is falling out of its ponytail." He pointed at it as though I could see it myself.

"Oh, um. Sure." Rude, body. You aren't supposed to blush.

His hand brushed my cheek ever so slightly and I tried desperately not to look into his eyes because I knew if I did I would see...

And then I looked up at his face. That man exuded joy so pure that I couldn't help myself and soon found my hand holding the side of his face, pulling him toward me.

It was only after my lips met his that I realized how truly selfish I was to take that kiss from him there in what he thought was our kitchen.

I really was the worst wife he could have asked for.

When I pulled back he didn't say anything, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. I looked at my toes and then went back to observing the kettle as though nothing had happened. Maybe I could pretend it didn't. At least for a few more days.