My heart sank. "My dad's been calling you, hasn't he?" I asked, guessing immediately. She always got the same tight look on her face whenever my dad came to her mind. She nodded.

"He's called several times, even hinting once that if I didn't get you to call him, he'd pull some strings at Andy's job somehow—and I don't think he means to get him a promotion."

"That controlling bastard," I seethed. Andy was a police dispatcher, and I supposed it wasn't out of the scope of impossible that my father had some pull at the San Francisco Police Department, but for my father to even consider that? Was there no limit to the depths he would sink to control me?

Kimberly put her hand on me. "Now listen. I didn’t tell you that so you'd contact him on our account. Andy is a little bit worried, but frankly, we'd rather collect unemployment than let your father influence our lives. I just thought you should be aware. Who knows what else he's up to? It might be best for you to go to him now, so he doesn't figure out where you are before you're ready and come here."

I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. I agreed, though. And I would not let this become my friend's problem. Nodding my head, I said, "I will. Thanks, Kimberly." Please let that marriage license come soon. I just needed to cash that check first . . .

I hugged her goodbye tightly, promising to visit soon, and update her frequently, and then I watched her car drive out the gate.

Again, I wrapped my arms around myself and stood, staring blindly at the non-working fountain, wondering what it would look like when it was fixed and working, wondering how far it was down on Grayson's list of priorities. Grayson . . . He had spent the entire weekend in a state of utter torment thanks to Charlotte, and yet he'd selflessly cared for me, soothing my fever, and making sure I was never alone. Apparently, I'd been wrong about The Dragon, in some ways at least. He wasn't the uncaring beast I'd originally thought. I pondered momentarily how he'd been betrayed by his brother, father, and stepmother. He was just a man—a man who held deep hurts and was trying his best to get by in a situation that, until me, had offered very little hope.

And I thought again about how I knew he'd been wronged not only by his own father, but by mine, too. Would he understand why I hadn't mentioned that if he knew? I thought about telling him now . . . only, our plan hadn't changed. We would still part ways soon enough. What purpose would it serve?

My mind filled with worries, I wandered back into the house and headed toward the office—the room where I'd first officially met Grayson Hawthorn. I sat down at the large desk and started rifling through the pile of new mail Charlotte must have retrieved from the mailbox when she returned this morning, along with the large pile of old, unopened mail, separating it all into three piles: what looked like bills, junk, and personal correspondence. There were several unopened letters addressed to Grayson in what looked like a feminine script. I set those aside, but when I came to a postcard with the picture of a bicycle leaning against a tree and turned it over, I noticed the same handwriting and that it was dated very recently. I hesitated only briefly before letting my eyes drift away from the address to the message.

Grayson,

Remember when we were thirteen and I splashed mud all over you with my bike and felt so badly? You told me it was impossible to stay mad at me for long. I'm praying you still have it in your heart to forgive me. I'll never stop trying . . .

All my love, Vanessa.

Vanessa. All my love? She still loves him? She was trying to persuade Grayson to forgive her? For marrying his brother? A strange ache had settled in my chest, making my skin feel prickly. I didn't like it. I started to put the most recent mail aside, deciding I was done with the task, when I came upon a business envelope addressed to me. I sucked in a breath, tearing it open. I let out a small shriek when I saw that it was our official marriage license, the prickly feeling dissolving into hopeful excitement. Tossing the other mail onto the desk, I walked quickly to the front door, calling toward Charlotte in the kitchen, "I'm going into town. I'll be back soon."

I heard her sing-song, "Okay," before the door swung shut behind me.

I had some money to collect. Quite a lot of money, in fact.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Grayson

By three o'clock, I was too exhausted to work for another minute. I returned to the house where the smells of Charlotte's blueberry scones hung sweetly in the air. I walked to the kitchen. "You don't play fair," I said, feigning hostility. "I was going to give you the silent treatment for at least another day and a half. Give me one of those."

Charlotte beamed happily at me, placing a warm scone on a plate with a dollop of clotted cream on top, and a spoonful of jam on the side. "Cheater," I mumbled. "Don't think this means I forgive you."

Charlotte smiled knowingly at me as I took a big bite of heaven. "I do apologize. I caused you pain, and I would never have done such a thing on purpose." She studied me for a moment. "I just . . ."

"You want Kira and I to have a real marriage." I shook my head. "I'm sorry, Charlotte, that's not going to happen. I don't have the time or desire for a wife." As far as the physical aspect . . . I had tried. Not that Charlotte needed to know that—it'd just give her false hope. In any case, Kira had said no. But we'd see about that. I wasn't going to give up on that front. For now at least, we were husband and wife—why not reap the benefits for a little while? She was like a little fire in my blood—beautiful, unpredictable, and full of life. And surely two months, perhaps a little less, would be plenty of time to quench that fire. I'd know the feel of her under me, around me, on top of me . . . and then it would be over. I'd be sated. And I would move on.