Medical bills had drained the Whitakers’ coffers until a rundown house, a rare beauty in its day, was all they had to show for their station. They were an old family, a well-respected one, and most importantly—they were too poor to be picky.
“Works for me.” He carried the food in and waited on her to direct him. “Do you have any beer?”
“I don’t drink.” A slight hesitation then she cleared her throat. “Beer, I mean.”
So much for the hope alcohol might numb him to this required courtship, not that she was bad company. Her father was nice enough, but Boaz had yet to see the man sober. He struck Boaz as a scotch or whiskey drinker. Boaz should have asked for that instead of a beer, but it was too late to backtrack now.
“That’s fine.” He flashed a practiced smile and received the expected response in the corresponding curve of her lips. “Water?”
“We might be poor,” she said, shutting the door behind him, “but we can afford sweet tea for guests.”
Kicking himself in the ass, he faced her. “That’s not what I—”
“I’m kidding.” She tucked the robe tighter until she became an Adelaide burrito. “Three doors down on your left is the living room. I’ll grab what we need and meet you there.”
Afraid he might trip over his tongue again, he kept it simple. “Okay.”
On his way past the staircase, he couldn’t help noticing more of the dirt that dusted her boots had left prints on the carpet runner. More proof she had been upstairs. The rest of the house was spotless, though he doubted they could afford help for the cleaning. That told him she was no stranger to hard work. Anything this family had, he felt certain was owed to Adelaide. And here she was, with him, ready to sacrifice herself yet again. He respected the hell out of her for that, and he hated himself a little more for taking advantage, but not enough to halt the proceedings.
The living room was shabby but comfortable, and its threadbare furniture put him at ease.
You’re a bull in a China shop.
That was his mother’s go-to description of him, and she hadn’t been wrong when he was a teen, forever bumping into her knickknacks and knocking over her doodads. The army helped him grow up, and the Elite polished him to a shine, but he still hated elegant spaces decorated with breakables and baubles that served no purpose but to spark insecurities in visitors.
A wall of gloomy portraits distracted him from thoughts of his family, and he didn’t hear Adelaide until she placed cups, plates, and utensils on the low coffee table with soft clinking noises.
Cranking his head toward her, he watched her set their places. She hesitated over the second one every time, as if reminding herself to put out two of everything instead of one. It led him to believe she ate in here often, and alone. That wasn’t the only thing he noticed about her.
“Nice shoes.” He should have kept his mouth shut, but part of him wanted her to know he had marked her earlier attire. It opened a door for her to explain them, but she locked it instead. “You like frogs?”
“Love them.” She waved him over and took the food to begin plating it. “They’re adorable.”
She stuck out one leg and rotated her ankle, showing off the plush tree frog house slipper. The top of her foot was red with creases from the bootlaces, but he refrained from mentioning them. She would tell him if it was any of his business. Until they got married, she was free to play dress-up with other men. It’s not like he could ding her when his thoughts drifted back to Savannah every time he let himself slip.
Forgive me, Grier. Goddess knows you deserve better.
Damn it.
Even his own mind refused to cut him a break, not that he had earned one.
“You okay?” Adelaide paused. “You look like you’re hurting. Headache?”
Heartache, but he couldn’t tell her that. “I skipped lunch.”
“I’ll grab you some ibuprofen.” She passed him a glass of tea. “Drink that. The caffeine will help.”
Head cocked, he watched her dash into the kitchen, heard her too. So, her change of shoes wasn’t to blame for her earlier stealth. Now that was interesting. Not many people could sneak up on him, but she had with no problem. Silent appeared to be her default, as if she had to remind herself to make noise.
The suspicion blossoming in his gut wilted when she opened a cabinet, and he spotted the rows upon rows of medicine bottles that must have belonged to her little sister. Adelaide, he decided, taught herself to be quiet for Hadley’s sake. Or, depending on how long their father had been an alcoholic, for her own.
Thanks to Boaz’s mother disowning his little sister, he had lost Amelie in name but not in the flesh. He could see her, talk to her, hold her. Amelie might not be a Pritchard anymore, but she was still alive. Adelaide had lost her sister and her mother, and he felt like an ass for admitting that it had made her all the more appealing. More vulnerable. Easier to mold into the shape he required of her.
Amelie couldn’t be a Pritchard again, that ship had sailed, but she could become a Whitaker. She might not be his sister legally, thanks to the disinheritance, but she could become his sister-in-law if the muleheaded imp took advantage of the opportunity he had arranged and stepped into the deceased Hadley Whitaker’s shoes.
Adelaide ought to have kicked his ass from here to the moon for asking her to turn her misfortune to his advantage, but she was as desperate as him. Neither of them
