I laugh, unfamiliar with either title. “Something to aspire to, I suppose.”
“Then there were the really odd ones,” he says. “My personal favorite was ‘His Beatitude.’”
“His what?”
“Beatitude.” The dimple in his cheek is driving me crazy. Who gets turned on by face divots?
Me, apparently.
“‘His Beatitude’ or ‘His Eminence’ are used in some catholic communities,” he explains. “Which I guess would be handy if the archbishop of the Syriac Orthodox Church shows up needing a tonsillectomy.”
I laugh and brush a strand of hair off my face. “It’s good to be prepared.”
“We had one guy click the box for ‘Your Excellency,’” he says. “That guy was a kick. Spent the whole exam keeping a straight face while I asked things like, ‘have you experienced any shortness of breath, Your Excellency?’ or ‘When was your last bowel movement, Your Excellency?”
I hoot with laughter, hardly caring that my mother would find it most unladylike.
“Isabella,” she hissed once, grabbing me by the arm at a royal gala. “It’s gauche to laugh with your mouth open.”
But here in the cozy cab of Bradley’s truck, I keep right on laughing. I’m grateful my mother can’t see me. Can’t read my mind, either, to know I’m thinking impure thoughts about the man driving me around in his big American pickup truck. “I love it,” I tell him. “I presume you’re no longer offering the full array of titles?”
“Nah, we had to pare down.” He grimaces. “Finally figured it out when a woman came storming up to the counter demanding to know what we were implying about her husband. She took it personally that ‘Mistress’ was an option.”
“Oh, dear.” I cover my mouth with my hand as he hits his turn signal and waits for a tractor to pass going the other way.
There’s an arched metal and wood sign over a long, asphalt driveway. Metallic silver letters spell out “Parker Ranch.” While not quite as grand as the signage at Ponderosa Resort, it’s much fancier than most farms we’ve driven past. I wonder how big this ranch is, but decide it’s improper to ask.
As Bradley steers us toward the barn, butterflies dance in my stomach. “Your mother’s expecting us, right?”
“Right. She might be back at the house, though. My sister’s daycare has early release on Wednesdays, so sometimes my mom looks after Jordan.”
“That’s your niece?”
“Yeah.” A warm smile spreads over his face. “Pretty much the cutest kid ever.”
I give him the haughtiest look I can muster. “Aside from Bree’s baby, you mean? My nephew is the pinnacle of cuteness.”
“I’ll give you that. Brian’s adorable. I dig how they mashed up ‘Breeann’ and ‘Austin’ to make his name.”
“Isn’t that clever? Perhaps Mark and Chelsea will do something similar.”
Bradley laughs. “I’m drawing a blank on that one. I guess they could go with Chark?”
“Or Melsea,” I suggest, fighting the urge to giggle. “That could work for either gender, though they already know it’s a girl.”
“Libby’s gonna be a great big sister,” Bradley muses. “Chelsea’s due in the spring, right?”
“March.” I wonder if I’ll still be here then. I glance at the barn and feel another flutter in my belly. “You’re sure this isn’t an imposition?”
“Trust me, it’s not.” He pushes open the truck door with a grin. “My mother lives to show off her broken animals.”
“Broken animals?” He doesn’t hear me, since he’s walking around to open my door. I assume I’ll find out soon enough.
Taking his hand, I slip from the cab of the truck feeling ungainly and strange in my hiking boots. Part of me likes it. In my life back home, I knew what it was to feel glamorous. Regal. Revered.
I never knew what it felt like to be tough.
Squaring my shoulders, I take three long strides toward the barn. Something gray and hulking darts in front of me and I scream.
“Bobcat!” I shriek again, remembering a talk I attended at a local museum. Bobcats are fierce predators that can leap twelve feet and take down big game. Panicking, I leap into Bradley’s arms. “Bobcat!”
I scrunch my eyes closed and wait for fangs to close around my throat. A rumbling against my shoulder makes me squinch one eye open.
He’s laughing. Bradley’s laughing, and I’m pretty sure I’m the cause.
“Easy mistake.” He juts his chin the direction I saw the creature run. “That’s Griff. He’s a Maine Coon.”
“A raccoon?” I learned about those, too, but I’m positive they didn’t look like what I just saw. I open the other eye and look back at the edge of the barn. The biggest house cat I’ve ever seen sits grooming himself in a patch of sun.
“A Maine Coon,” Bradley repeats. “It’s a type of domesticated cat. He’s harmless, I promise. His name’s Gryffindor and my mom’s had him for years.”
It slowly dawns on me I’ve made an utter ass of myself. Also, that Bradley’s holding me in his arms like a baby.
No, not like a baby.
Like a bride being carried over a threshold. It’s a custom in Dovlano, and I pray to God it’s not one here because this is mortifying enough.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” He grins. “Hey. This is the same conversation we had when I kissed you before.”
“But—I kissed you.”
“You’re right, you did.” Slowly, he lowers his mouth to mine, lips brushing softly. “So I owe you one.”
I’m too dizzy to follow the logic, or to question whether we ought to be doing this in a barnyard on his mother’s property. It’s disrespectful. It’s ill-mannered. It’s—
“So good,” I breathe as he deepens the kiss. As his tongue grazes mine, my eyes flutter shut. I imagine for an instant I’m a normal woman, kissing this wonderful man who could possibly be my boyfriend. Husband, even. With the way Bradley kisses—soft and gentle and achingly slow—I can picture myself doing this for the next fifty years. Longer, even.
“You’re here!”
My eyes fly open at the sound of a woman’s voice. I suck in a breath as Bradley smiles and slowly lowers me to the ground.
“Hey, Mom.” He turns toward a woman with ash blonde hair and the most perfect posture I’ve seen outside a royal palace. Her blue eyes are warm, and she looks completely unsurprised to see a wanton woman on her property holding hands with her only son.
I glance down and confirm it. Yes, he’s holding my hand. I should definitely draw back.
Before I get the chance, Bradley lets go and pulls his mother in for a hug. “Great to see you,” he says. “Mom, this is Isabella Blankenship.”
“Izzy, please.” I extend my hand and do my best to summon some dignity. Maybe she didn’t see me making out with her son.
“It’s a pleasure, Izzy.” Her eyes flash with amusement as she pumps my hand with a quick glance at her son. “When you said you were bringing a friend, I didn’t realize she was that kind of friend.”