The Marriage Agenda(19)

"Fine," she managed.

"If you're worried about the retirement community, I've looked it up. It's a good one."

"I've been there before," Chloe said, her words a bit harsher than she'd  intended. She'd found the facility to be clean, well-staffed, and  beautiful-very much a home-like environment with friendly residents to  boot. But it wasn't the farm.

It wasn't home.

Knox didn't push the issue, and she couldn't help but wonder if he  realized the well-publicized Pactron bid had taken her grandmother's  land. She suspected not-Knox seemed far too transparent to hide such  knowledge-but she couldn't discount the fact that he was Rex's son.  Dishonesty tainted the gene pool.

"Will your grandmother be able to come to our reception?"

Chloe snorted, then covered it-albeit poorly-with a coughing fit. Her  grandmother would sooner strut naked down Main Street than step foot in a  Hamilton function-especially after Chloe had shared her suspicions  about Rex-but she didn't tell Knox that. If she did, she'd have to tell  him why, at which point his generosity with his files would turn to ice.  She opted for the noncommittal. "I'm not sure she's up for the drive."

The truth was, when her grandmother found out about the marriage, she'd  probably borrow a cane and chase Knox from the building. Chloe would  have to figure out a way to keep them apart, at least until she figured  out how to break the news gently-and preferably from a great distance.  He could walk her in the building, but there was no way she'd let him  past the front desk.

A little over an hour later, the feeble granny theory was blown to hell.

Chloe stared slack jawed at the receptionist. "What do you mean she's not here? Where is she?"

"At a bocce ball tournament. She's one of our star players.

"Bocce ball?"

Knox didn't hide his bemusement. "It's a game where you throw balls across the lawn-"

"I know what it is," Chloe snapped, though she hadn't a clue. Her grandmother was throwing balls across a lawn?

The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with a Maybelline problem, focused  most of her attention on Knox. She didn't stoop to batting her  eyelashes, but she wasn't far from it. "Was she expecting you?"

Chloe ignored the question, which wasn't directed at her to begin with. "When will she be back?"

"They're scheduled to return tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow? Where are they?"

"Pennsylvania. They made regionals," the woman said brightly. "Can I give her a message for you?"

Her grandmother was at a bocce ball tournament in Pennsylvania? Chloe  hadn't been so dumbstruck since Knox had proposed, and before that … well,  she couldn't remember. She shook her head. "No, no message. Thank you."

She turned, only vaguely aware of Knox threading his fingers through hers as they walked back outside.

Halfway across the parking lot, he spoke. "I take it you didn't know she played bocce ball?"

"She does crossword puzzles."

"Is there some sort of law against doing both?"

"This isn't funny."

He stopped and tugged her around to face him. "Actually, it's somewhat  hilarious. You had this poor woman pegged for a crossword existence, and  she's off playing in the bocce regionals."

Chloe wanted to lay into him and tell him just how not hilarious the  whole mess was, but it didn't happen. Instead, her breath caught and she  was struck for the umpteenth time by how unfairly attractive he was.  Would looking at him ever fail to wreck her? The frustration that had  been building since he interrupted her escape softened. "I guess it  might be a little bit funny," she admitted.

Knox squeezed her hand and grinned devilishly. "Want to go find her?"

To Pennsylvania? With him? "Actually, I have a better idea."

Ten minutes later, they navigated the long driveway to her grandmother's  old farmhouse, the car finding every rut. Other than the overgrown  grass, it looked as it always had.

When Knox stopped the car, she got out and waded through the knee-high  lawn to the wide, wraparound porch. Her sneakers were silent on the old  boards, but she nevertheless heard phantom echoes of the slap of bare  feet and the very real rumble of a distant summer storm. She reached out  and gingerly brushed the petals of a rose that had bypassed the trellis  and bowed gracefully into the open space, permeating the air with its  fragrance.         

     



 

She looked up as Knox joined her. "When I was nine," she said, "I was  running out here when a thorn caught me on the cheek. After that, she  checked every day to make sure none of the branches made it past the  railing so it wouldn't happen again."

"If that had happened to me, I probably would have been grounded-first for running, then for any damage I caused the bush."

"Tell me you're joking."

He shrugged. "Only a little."

She inhaled the sweet scent of the rose, her thoughts heavy. Maybe  growing up Hamilton wasn't all the tabloids made it out to be. She'd  always thought of it as a privileged existence, but perhaps reality was  more sterile than enviable.

Outside the tunnel of climbing roses, the wind picked up, bringing with  it the promise of rain. The old porch swing creaked in the breeze and  overhead a sheet of the aluminum roofing groaned. For nearly eight  years, that had been the song of her life.

Her heart hurt.

Knox walked over to the swing and, after a moment of inspection, sat.  With his long legs stretched in front of him and his arm across the back  of the bench, he looked as if he belonged there.

"My grandfather used to sit like that," she said. "And my grandma would  fuss around him, sweeping beneath his feet and icing the tea and tending  to her plants. He would eventually get her to slow down and join him,  but the next night, he'd have to convince her all over again. I think  that's the only time she ever sat still."

"Yet you're surprised by bocce ball?"

She turned her attention to a nearby climbing rosebush, carefully  tucking the vines to their side of the railing, just as her grandmother  would have done. Then she realized that in time the house and the bush  would be gone and her small gesture would be erased. Her vision wavered  with unshed tears.

"Chloe?"

She blinked back the moisture in her eyes before she looked at him. She  didn't trust herself to speak, but she didn't have to say a word.

"Join me?"

Refusing would have been a lot easier than saying yes, but the man inviting her to sit wasn't the one the world saw.

He was the one she loved.

It didn't matter how pointless her feelings were … they were as honest as  they came, and this was a moment she'd never get back. She released her  hold on the stem and eased next to him on the old swing. Countless times  she'd watched her grandparents sit there and wondered if she would ever  find the kind of love they had.

She had. He'd just never love her back.

Another gust of wind blew, and with it came a smattering of fat drops.  They made a racket against the metal roof. "I love that sound," she  murmured.

"How many times have you sat out here watching the rain?" he asked. He  eased his fingers through hers and stroked her hand with his thumb.

"Countless." She melded against him, finding contentment before  registering she'd be far better off on the opposite side of the porch.

He stared pensively at the thickening clouds. "I just realized I've never sat to watch the rain. Not once."

His admission surprised her. "And to think I used to believe you had the  perfect life. You've probably never had a splinter in your foot,  either."

His thumb ceased its motion. "Is a splinter in your foot supposed to be a good thing?"

She looked up at him. "It would be if you knew what you were missing."

He watched the intensifying weather for a moment before he spoke. "You know, there's something else I've never done."

"I can only imagine." She rolled her eyes, but despite her flippancy,  her heart sped, not at his words, but at their soft, wistful quality.  "What might that be?"

"I've never kissed anyone in the rain."

Chloe swallowed. "Maybe you've never found the right person."

His gaze fell to her lips. "Maybe I have."

"We are two hours from home and it's officially pouring. Don't even think about it."

He stood, pulling her up with him. "Is that a refusal?"

"It's common sense."

"Common sense is not actually wanting a splinter in your foot." He  maneuvered her near the railing, where a few errant drops found their  way through the greenery and splattered the floor boards. "How's this?"

She didn't answer, which was apparently answer enough. He tugged her  closer. For an endless moment, he did nothing but look. Then he threaded  his fingers through her hair and leaned down, kissing her so softly she  wondered if she had imagined the pressure, but there was no denying the  effects. Her pulse raced, her heart stumbled, and her hands shook.  Chill bumps pebbled her bare arms. Just the rain. But it wasn't, and she  knew it.