Honeymoon Phase By Amy Daws Read Free Chapter 18

Addison

I’m late for work Monday morning because . . . well . . . I didn’t realize how friggin’ long it would take me to drive from Jamestown to Boulder. It’s not a particularly long drive, it’s just a hell of a lot longer than the five-minute jaunt I’m used to. I’m definitely going to need to start bringing my computer home in the evenings this winter though because if I get snowed in and can’t make it down the peak, I need to be able to at least manage my sales calls.

Thankfully, Chuck and Bullhead have the day-to-day stuff at the yard pretty well-handled. I don’t run the forklifts or pull orders down very often these days. Since my dad started spending more time in Florida, I’ve taken over a lot of what he used to do in terms of sales and ordering. The only thing he hasn’t fully let me in on is the meetings he’s had with the potential buyers that came out of nowhere. Apparently they’re from Colorado Springs and do some level of developing, and they offered him a mountain of money that I can understand looks appealing to him. He’s burned-out and ready to cut ties and leave the yard behind.

But I’m not.

And it drives me crazy that he keeps telling me he’s saving me from myself. I know my own mind, damn it.

I’m distracted when I pull into the lot and see that all the forklifts are lined up on either side of the building center doors, framing the entrance. White balloons and paper bells hang from the prongs and I can’t for the life of me figure out what this could be about. Did I forget about a special event we’re throwing? We don’t host many events here so who the hell authorized this? Maybe my dad forgot to tell me something before he flew out?

I glance around the yard to see if any of the guys are outside to ask and it’s a ghost town, so I hightail my ass inside to see what all the fuss is about.

When I push through the double doors, my jaw drops to the floor when I am greeted by my entire crew of about twenty people inside the showroom, coffee mugs in hand standing beneath a giant banner that says:

“Oh fuck . . . she’s here!” Bullhead croaks and hits a button on a dusty old boom box where a loud wedding march song crackles through the shitty speakers. Everyone cheers and holds their mugs up, clapping their hands and offering me their well-wishes.

Chuck appears beside me, gesturing to the crowd and ramping them up even more.

“What is this?” I ask as Chuck walks me back toward the counter where customers pay and I see a large cardboard box and, when I’m close enough to look inside, I see it’s a giant sheet cake with my face on it.

I cringe and cover my eyes because it’s a horrific picture of me with two middle fingers up and my tongue out. It was taken by my father years ago. I was an unruly teenager at the time and I’m pretty sure all he did was tell me to smile for the camera. This photo has lived on the bulletin board of our break room for close to a decade and I’m 90 percent sure they just plunked that dusty photo right on this beautiful white frosted cake.

Chuck puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly to quiet everyone down. “Shut up so I can say a little something.”

Everyone settles down and I feel my cheeks flame red. “What are you doing, Chuck?”

His voice is loud so everyone can hear as he says, “Well, your dad called to tell me the news over the weekend and the guys and I wanted to show you how happy we are for you, Addie May.” He barks out a dry laugh and everyone raises their mugs in agreement.

I look around and see that they’ve got balloons and streamers and cheap bridal shower decorations strewn all over the place. They even set out the potluck table in the break room and there’s four crockpots and casserole dishes and what looks like a cheese and meat tray all laid out. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Sure we did, darling.” Chuck smiles so big, I can’t see his eyes. “Most of us have seen you grow up around here and this was the least we could do to celebrate your news. You’re not just your father’s daughter. You’re ours too.”

My eyes start to sting and I lick my lips to stop my chin from trembling. “Thank you.”

“We all pooled our money and got you a little something too.”

“No,” I exclaim, holding my hands out as Bullhead walks up with a giant box wrapped in brown paper. “No gifts. I won’t take it.”

“Shut up and open your present, damn it,” Bullhead croaks before stepping back.

I sigh heavily and roll my eyes, not liking a single minute of this kind of attention, especially when this was all to fulfill a stupid trust fund requirement.

Regardless, I rip into the paper and my jaw drops when I see a familiar logo on the box. “Is this?” I look to Chuck and Bullhead and all the other guys who look like they’re positively bursting with excitement.

I drop down to my knees and go nuts ripping off the rest of the paper. “You got me the Challenger Bread Pan?” I squeal as I grip the box in my hands so hard, I could break through the packaging.

“You’ve only been talking about the damn thing for two years,” Bullhead croaks, taking a sip of his coffee mug.

“You guys!” I shake my head and stare down at the three-hundred-dollar black cast-iron bread pan that I’ve wanted but refused to ever buy because the price is outrageous and I have a perfectly good pan that makes bread just fine.

But this . . . this feels . . . special. I’m overcome!

I glance up at the mostly middle-aged and senior men all staring at me like I’m their kid opening a bicycle on Christmas morning, not their boss who signs their paychecks. My face contorts out of nowhere and without a word, I throw myself into Chuck’s arms, hugging him with every shred of emotion I have swelling inside of me. I bury my face in his chest to hide my tears. He smells like gasoline and tobacco and it feels like home. He shakes with silent laughter so I pull away, wiping aggressively at my face.

“You’re all a bunch of assholes,” I snark, thrusting a finger at the lot of them, and they all chuckle back at me. I clear my throat and nod, staring down at my gift that I can’t wait to test out. “And you’re all getting fresh loaves of bread next week.” They cheer and I sigh heavily before adding a heartfelt “Thank you.”

“Monroe Lumber belongs to a Monroe . . . or I guess Fletcher now?” Chuck shrugs and puts his arm around me, his face going serious as he looks out at everyone. “And we’re all just real grateful we get to keep calling you boss for the foreseeable future and not some asswipe from Colorado Springs.”

The guys all cheer and I let out a garbled laugh.

“Now get back to work, you slackers,” Chuck shouts, waving his hands out. “We’ll have potluck with the blushing bride at lunchtime.”

Everyone grumbles their replies and disperses, leaving me alone to dab at my eyes and inhale a deep breath. I’ve just about gathered my thoughts when I spot a tiny blonde woman in the corner of the showroom. Is that my . . .

Mother-in-law?

Johanna Fletcher waves enthusiastically and makes her way over to me with a big smile. “I’ve never seen anyone cry over a bread pan before.”

“You saw that?” I cringe and sniff loudly, trying to hide the remnants of my emotional outburst.

“What a testament to how loved you are around here.”

I wrinkle my nose and shrug. “Or a testament to how many hints I drop about the things I like.”

“That too maybe.” Johanna laughs, glancing down at the pan. “You know when Steven was alive, I used to use my granddaughter to drop hints to him about what I wanted for Christmas or my birthday.”

I smile at that. “I’m sure that was effective.”

“Oh gosh yes. Steven would do anything Everly asked of him. All my boys would too.” She laughs and I can’t help but see the pain in her eyes with her casual discussion of her late husband.

My brows lift. “I enjoyed getting to know Everly in Mexico. She’s so . . . dynamic.”

“As are you, dear,” she says, setting a binder on the counter between us. “Now, I know this is sudden, but if you want to get this wedding planned before Christmas like your father wants, we have no time to waste.”

I force a smile I don’t altogether feel. “You know, if you wanted to just take over and do most of it, I would be totally okay with that.”

“Well, what about your tastes? Do you have a mood board or a Pinterest board or something I can use for inspiration?”

“A mood board?” I rasp, blinking back my bewilderment. “No. I don’t have a mood board.”

“Well, what do you like?” Johanna asks, propping her elbow on the counter and smiling excitedly at me. “What are your favorite colors? Favorite flowers? What kind of esthetic do you envision for this special day?”

“Oh gosh . . .” I murmur, wracking my brain because I’ve literally never thought about this in my entire life. I barely even celebrate my birthday, let alone have an opinion on what I like for a wedding esthetic.

“This is no problem!” Johanna opens her binder and points to the first sheet of paper. “I printed off a little QR code thing you can scan that takes you to a quiz online that you can fill out and that will help guide all of our decisions. Let me know when you have it done and I can take it from there. Oh, also, I’ve taken the liberty of setting up some dress fitting appointments.”

My lips part. “Dress fittings?”

“Yes. The bridal stores in town require appointments. Such a pain, but I managed to snag a time at one this Saturday. We need to move quickly because if they have to order, they’ll need several weeks I’m sure. Do you want me to invite the girls? Or do you want to let them know yourself?”

“The girls?”

“Cozy, Trista, Dakota, and whoever else you’re close to.”

My brows furrow. “Oh . . . like . . . we all try on dresses?”

“No silly, we just watch you try on dresses.” She chuckles like I just said the silliest thing in the world. “Unless you want them to be bridesmaids?”

“Um . . . I haven’t thought about bridesmaids.”

“No problem!” she says, pushing the binder toward me. “It’s all in the quiz.”

I stare down at the binder, suddenly feeling like I’m back in school and needing to cram for a big test. I never liked school. Hated it in fact. My head is swimming with information overload and we’ve only just begun.

“Do you mind if we exchange numbers before I head out? That way I can text you with calendar requests?”

“Um . . . sure,” I mumble and hand over my phone to watch Luke’s mom type in her number and then call my phone.

“Be sure to save that!” She points to the device in my hand and I smile and nod woodenly. “Okay, I have loads to do and you have a lumberyard to run!” She looks around and presses a hand to her chest before staring back at me. “This is very impressive, Addison.”

“What is?”

“You. Here.” She inhales deeply. “My son sure knows how to pick ’em.”

With a wave of her fingers she’s off like some sort of fairy godmother-in-law and before I know it, I’m at my desk on a website I’ve never heard of and several clicks into a wedding quiz from hell and catapulting myself into a full-blown panic attack.

After spending over an hour on this miserable quiz, I’m still only halfway done. Halfway? What the fuck other questions do these people have for me? I want out but now I’ve come so far and it seems like a waste to click out now. And I bet then I lose my answers. I haven’t even got to reception questions yet!

In a fit of rage, I grab my phone and call the only person who deserves this fury.

“Hello?” Luke answers, his voice calm and casual, the complete opposite of my inner psyche.

“What season are you?” I bark into the phone, bypassing pleasantries as I pound away on the keyboard of my computer.

“What?”

“What season are you?” My voice rises as I stand up and step away from the computer like it’s about to light on fire.

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I need to know your season so I know what color palette to pick for the wedding,” I snipe, pushing my hand into my hair. “I think I’m an Autumn, but if you’re a Spring, we’re basically fucked according to the quiz.”

“According to what quiz?” Luke growls, finally reaching my level of frustration. “Are you having a stroke?”

“No. I’m taking a quiz your mother gave me after she dropped by today with a binder that looks like it contains the codes to the nuclear bombs.”

Luke exhales heavily. “Of course this is my mother’s doing. I would expect nothing less of Johanna Fletcher. This is where Everly gets it—”

“When did we get engaged?” I ask, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Huh?”

“It’s customary to send out engagement announcements and we screwed the pooch on that one, but I’m thinking we can send one out retroactively. I need to text your mom to get the name of a good photographer. Shit, what the hell am I going to wear for that kind of photoshoot? I really need to know what fucking season you are, Luke. I’m assuming your personal style is rustic, right?”

“Um . . . it is if that’s what you want it to be.”

“I think I’m classic so we’re fucked again, Fletcher. This is a—”

“Go outside,” Luke barks forcefully, cutting me off.

“Huh?”

“Go outside,” he repeats again. “Get on a forklift and move some shit around.”

I frown and glance out the window with confusion. “Why?”

“Because you need to touch some fucking grass, and for you I think that means operating heavy machinery. Get away from the wedding planning shit. I’m on my way back from Denver now and I’m coming to see you. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“You don’t have to come here. You’re probably busy. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Roe.”

“Fine, I’m going.” I huff and hang up the phone.

He might be right. Just looking out the window at the guys working makes me feel better. But a loud engine would help me relax even further. So I follow Luke’s instructions and head out to join the crew, fully intent on kicking Bullhead off his forklift so I can have some sort of weird-ass lumberyard-chick therapy session.

Sounds kind of dirty.

The fresh air is healing and I lose track of time unloading a shipment of plywood that came in from one of our suppliers. I’m snapped back to reality when I hear Bullhead yelling my name, so I pull the noise-canceling headphones off my ears and glance down to where he’s waving up at me.

“You have someone in your office, boss!” he shouts and cuts a look over to a couple other guys nearby. “It’s loverboy,” Bullhead adds and makes a gross hip thrusting action. That is something I really did not need to see on a sixty-year-old man today. He hooks his thumb to the building. “Get off my rig so I can get back to work.”

I shut down the engine and slide down off the equipment, giving the guys a wave as I make my way into the building center. My heart rate starts increasing all over again and I wonder if perhaps I should have stayed on the forklift a bit longer, although I don’t think my change in blood pressure is because of wedding planning.

It’s because my husband is here.

God, that’s weird to say.

Luke stands in front of my desk all tall, flannel and adorable with his little mustache and backward hat, but the concern in his eyes when I walk through my office doorway has me feeling guilty for calling him earlier.

“I’m so sorry you had to come here,” I say, pulling my jacket and gloves off and flopping them on a nearby chair.

“Don’t be,” he says, moving over to me and putting his hands on my shoulders. He crouches down in front of me to get a good look at me. “You feeling better?”

“I am,” I reply with a sheepish smile. “I got to drive the forklift.”

He chuckles and stands up straight, looking down at me with a sexy smirk. “Remind me to show you how to operate the tractor this winter.”

My eyes light up. “Hell yes.” Seems my husband knows me well.

Of course he does, Roe, he’s your best friend. Good God.

He shakes his head and walks over to my desk. “Is this my mom’s binder?”

“That’s the one.” I shudder just looking at it.

He picks it up and slides it under his arm. “I can handle this.”

“But how are you going to know if baby’s breath is tacky or classic?” I deadpan, then frown when I realize I’m kind of serious.

“Roe.” Luke licks his lips and fights away a smile, revealing a dimple that I never noticed before. “It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Whatever we do is just for show. Remember?”

“Oh yeah . . . right . . .” I murmur, my brows furrowing as I look back into the showroom and notice the banner on the ceiling has fallen down on one side. It feels ominous in a strange way. I clear my throat and look back at him. “This isn’t real.”

I swallow the painful knot in my throat, hating how those words feel on my tongue. After the gift from the yard guys and Luke’s mom acting all sweet and caring and now Luke coming here all protective and chivalrous, I guess I’m feeling a bit like . . . all of this feels pretty damn real to me.

“Come here.” Luke holds his hands out to me as I walk over to where he pulls me in for a big hug. As our bodies press together, I feel myself instantly start to calm down as my breaths synchronize with his. He doesn’t smell like gasoline and chew, but he smells familiar all the same. I swear he’s like a weighted blanket that just makes all the noise go away. How the hell does he do that?

He rubs the back of my head and murmurs, “Feel better?”

“Much,” I reply with a dopey smile up at him.

“Good, I have something for you.” He digs into his pocket and retrieves a small burgundy box with the word Cartier etched into the top.

“What the hell is that?” I step back and point at the thing in his hand like it’s a mouse.

Luke chuckles softly. “Just open it.”

“I don’t want to open it.” I ball my hands up into fists and press them into my chest.

“Why not?” He looks at me with an amused smirk.

“Because that looks expensive.” I stare down at it again. What is with people giving me extravagant gifts today?

“It wasn’t that bad.” Luke removes the space between us and forces it into my hand. “Just take it.”

My hands are shaking as I hold the box in my hand, terrified that I’m going to open it and find some ridiculous three-carat diamond that Luke spent his life savings on because he’s freakishly nice and feels guilty for not having a ring on my finger when people ask.

“Luke, I seriously don’t want . . .” My voice trails off when I pop it open and see what’s inside. “Oh my gosh.”

“Do you like it?” Luke hunches down to get a better look at my reaction but I can’t be bothered to look at him, because what I have in my hands is way too beautiful to look away from.

“Here, let me help you.” He takes the box from me, pulling the ring out of the slot and grabbing my left hand to slide it onto my finger.

“Oh my gosh,” I say again because it’s just so . . .

“It’s cool, right?” Luke says, sounding like a kid in a candy store. “I saw it and totally thought of you. Does the size feel okay? I had to guess but they said we can exchange it if we need to. I picked it up in Denver this morning.”

“Luke, it’s perfect.” I hold my hand up, marveling at the unique piece of art on my finger. I say “art” because it is. It’s a smooth white gold metal band that wraps around my finger in the form of curved nail. It has a row of tiny diamonds wrapped around what looks like a nailhead, adding a touch of sparkle that even I can’t be mad at. “It’s a freaking wrapped nail with diamonds.”

The proud twinkle in his eye is unmistakable.

“But Cartier?” I glance at the box still in his hand. “Luke. I’m not a brand girlie and even I know this couldn’t have been cheap.”

“You’re about to own a lumberyard, Roe. You needed something to represent the success you’ve earned in your life and I think this does that.” His brows furrow and a quiet, almost melancholic vibe descends over him as he rubs his thumb over my ring. “If we’re going to fake it, we might as well do it right, you know?”

I look up at him as he holds my hand, bowing over me in that tall lanky way he has about him. He holds my eyes captive as he looks from my eyes to my lips and then back to my eyes. He does that a lot. And every time it makes me want to lick my lips in preparation.

But we don’t kiss.

We shouldn’t kiss.

We’re just friends.

Then again, he just put a Cartier ring on my finger.

I lift my chin up just as he jerks back and clears his throat, fully shattering whatever spell we were just under. His voice is deep and reflective when he says, “Roe, I know you think I’m doing you this big favor by marrying you so you can inherit the lumberyard, but I promise you, babe . . . we are in this whole song and dance together, okay? I’m with you until the end.”

Babe?

Did he just call me babe?

And did I just get butterflies when he did?

Holy fuck.

He said some other stuff too though. The end? He said something about this ending?

The corner of his mouth lifts as his eyes smolder on mine. “My family is crazy. Your family is crazy. But you and me. We can be good. We can get through all of this as long as we have each other’s back. And I will always have your back.”

He pulls me in for another hug and presses his lips into my hair. I close my eyes and sink into the comfort of my best friend. Best. Friend. This is a best friend hug, because that’s what Luke is.

For a few hours, especially after seeing all the effort my lumberyard family put into celebrating my fake marriage, not to mention my fake mother-in-law and her detailed binder, I’d traversed from fake to almost real. And my ring? Fuck, my best friend knows me well, which is why he got this ring. That’s all.

It’s not romantic, and I don’t do romance.

Which is why I am not disappointed that he didn’t kiss me on the lips . . . because . . . we’re just friends . . . and friends don’t kiss on the lips no matter how good it feels. And even if I ventured into fantasyland momentarily today, Luke did not. We’re just friends who happen to be married to each other. No big deal.