Rise: Populations Crumble, Book 2 Page 5

  “Okay, we can tell them.” He sounds resigned.

  Stopping, I spin to face him. “Are you sure? I know it’s a big deal for you. We can talk about it more if you want.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I appreciate your honesty, and your desire to be upfront with your family. You’re already keeping this from the rest of the world—I won’t ask you to change who you are to keep my secret from them, too,” he says, jaw set in determination.

  I roll what he said over in my mind, taking in the weight of it. I hadn’t thought about it before now, but he’s right. We are living as the O’Roarkes currently, which is neither my nor his legal name. Part of me accepted that because I wasn’t ready to tell anyone else that he’d duped me. But part of me wasn’t willing to dive into the political ramifications of who he really is. It’s easier to pretend to be an O’Roarke than to be a Royce. Guilt washes over me when I realize that I’ve been enjoying the benefits of the same deception I’d wanted to crucify him for.

  “I think I owe you an apology, Patrick.” My voice comes out low, humbled.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “What? Why would you owe me an apology?” He crosses the divide between us, invading my personal space. He reaches up and smooths a piece of wayward brunette hair back from my face, and my stomach flip-flops.

  My mouth has gone suddenly dry, so I have to swallow before I can answer him. “Well, I was so angry at you for not telling me who you really were—and I do think that was justified anger—but, I turned around and slipped right into it with you, and never even realized that I was being a hypocrite. I’ve only been a Royce for, what, a week and a half?”

  I look up at him, and he gives me a single tense nod, but doesn’t interrupt me.

  “The pressure I feel from your family’s political position is huge, and I’ve only been part of the family for a short time. Nobody even knows who I am, or cares. But you . . . this is your whole life. Your whole future, and the expectations of an entire continent of people.” I pause, the weight settling more fully in my mind. “I guess I understand more now why you wanted to be free of that for a while. And I’m sorry I judged you for that decision.” I look up, and his face is so serious, I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  The moment drags on, until I can’t take it anymore. “Would you say something, please?”

  He doesn’t speak, but he does wrap his hand around the back of my head, and pulls me in for a sudden, fierce kiss. I freeze at first, unsure, but after a moment I relax into his hard chest, my hands softly resting against his warmth. He backs me up, and I feel the rough bark of a tree lightly against my back. Letting go of my head, he brackets me in with both arms between him and the trunk, and after a moment pulls back, resting his forehead against mine.

  My lips are tingling, and my brain is blank from the sudden display of passion. At some point, I’d clenched a hand into the soft fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him in closer, and I force myself to let it go, but leave my hand pressed to him where I can feel his heart pounding.

  His voice is rough with emotion when he finally says, “Thank you, Sadie. Thank you for understanding,” and then he crushes me to his chest in a bear hug. I hug him back and close my eyes to soak in the moment, my own heart pounding to match his.

  A throat clears, and both of us pop our heads up. “You have an interesting definition of ‘finding a lunch spot.’ ” Teddy quips, an amused note in his voice.

  Patrick steps back, but instead of releasing me, he slips an arm down around my waist, holding me lightly against his side. “Well, we are newlyweds, what do you expect?” he jokes, giving no hint of the tension that was simmering between us seconds ago.

  “Yeah, yeah. Still my baby sister, so, keep it to yourself.” Teddy waves dismissively, and Faith elbows him in the ribs.

  “Ignore him. Did you find a spot to eat?” She seems lighter, and I hope that means she confided in Teddy, but I won’t meddle and push it further either way.

  “Yep, right over there.” Patrick points to a nice, clear spot I hadn’t noticed.

  “Perfect!” Faith drags Teddy by the hand, and he shakes his head at her enthusiasm.

  After we’ve set out the blanket and all helped ourselves to our lunch feast, I give Patrick an encouraging sideways glance. He’s just taken a huge bite of a deviled egg and gives me a shrug. I giggle at his goofiness. It’s nice to see he has a relaxed and silly side, too.

  Our lighthearted moment is interrupted by sudden music blaring from Patrick’s pocket.

  “What the heck?” he mumbles around a half-chewed deviled egg as he tries to dig his mini-tablet from his pocket.

  Before he succeeds, however, the green band on my wrist starts buzzing so aggressively it feels like it’s going to shake my hand off my wrist. “Oh, my word!” I flip my wrist up, to see what’s going on. My good mood vanishes, and my stomach falls straight to my feet. There, on my wristband are two blinking, entwined pink hearts.

  Patrick manages to kill the music coming from his phone. “What was that, the cha-cha?”

  I drop my still-buzzing wrist to my lap, the plate of delicious picnic food abandoned. I can’t believe I forgot. Fertile Week. After a minute or so, the buzzing stops. I feel physically rattled by the experience, and I can’t believe it’s going to do that every month—it’s so obnoxious.

  Patrick is still looking at his phone, and hasn’t realized that I’ve checked out. “Huh, there are hearts on here. Why would it give me a heart alarm?” He clicks it. “Oh, it says—OH.” He finally looks up and sees my horrified expression. He glances over at Teddy and Faith. The pity on Faith’s face is plain, but Teddy chuckles.

  “Mortifying, isn’t it? Let’s announce it to the whole world!” Teddy shakes his head in derision. “These people do not understand subtlety. Or privacy, for that matter.”

  “Can we change the subject?” I blurt, wanting to pretend it never happened. Good luck with that, when the medical director wants to know why you didn’t track any extracurricular activities.

  “Sure, what do you want to talk about?” Faith jumps in to rescue me.

  “How much further away is this lighthouse, anyways? We’ve been hiking almost two hours,” Patrick asks.

  “Not far, I think another half mile or so. But if you don’t want to finish the hike, we can all turn around, or the two of us can finish and you two could head back early . . .” she trails off.

  “Nope, we’re good. Can’t wait to keep hiking!” My voice sounds high-pitched, even to me.

  Teddy raises a single eyebrow and takes me in without a word. Faith bites her lip worriedly. Patrick reaches over, and places a hand gently on my arm, steadying me.

  “I agree, can’t wait to see the lighthouse.” He picks my plate up, and hands it back to me. “But first, we need to eat this delicious lunch so we don’t have to carry it anymore. What do you think they put in these deviled eggs, anyways?”

  “I’d wager paprika, and enough cayenne to remind you of the hellfire they came from.” Teddy pops one into his mouth whole.

  I roll my eyes but am inwardly grateful to move on.

  Fertile Week

  Four hours later we walk back through the door of our cottage tired, sunburnt, and with a few new blisters apiece. The lighthouse was beautiful, and the view from the top was postcard-worthy. But the enjoyment wasn’t there for me when fertile week kept running through my panicked brain on repeat the entire time. Patrick and I are just starting to get on better footing, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump into bed, even if he is a knee-melting kisser. I wonder what he’s expecting now. Is he ready to take things to the next level, even though I’m not?

  Patrick, blissfully unaware of my mental laps, drops the backpack off right inside the door and takes an exaggerated stretch which causes his chest muscles to flex impressively. I stare for a moment at the mesmerizing motion before heading to the kitchen, looking for a distraction. I don’t make it, though, because our blinking television display catches my eye.

/>   The entire screen is blinking an obnoxious, bubblegum pink message.

  Today is a very special day! It’s the beginning of your first fertile week here at Mairmont Honeymoon Resort. To commemorate this special time here with us, celebratory dinner and drinks will be catered to your cottage each evening. Additionally, all of your activities have automatically been pushed back five days to accommodate more time together. Good luck, and have fun!

  The little kissy face at the end of that message makes me want to punch something. The message is pretty clear. Stay in, and get busy. Ugh.

  Patrick walks up beside me, and takes in the flashing screen. “Do you think it’s going to stay like that for five whole days? The blinking is awful.” He holds his hand up to block the glare, and makes an exaggerated squinty face.

  “I certainly hope not, or we’re going to have to abandon the living room. Especially since they so kindly cancelled all activities, and our ability to leave for dinner.” I can hear the anger rising in my own voice, and try again to tamp it down. What did you expect, Sadie? The whole point of this place is to get you knocked up.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder, but I flinch back, and he withdraws it, furrowing his eyebrows. “Is everything okay?”

  I shrug and cross my arms, not even sure how to begin a conversation that says, “Hey, I know we’re starting to patch things up, but you should still stay on your side of the bed, ‘kay?”

  After I’m silent for another long while, he tries again. “Is this about fertile week? Because I think we need to sit down and talk about that.”

  I still don’t answer, instead I head straight into the kitchen. It may not be my kitchen back home, but it’s still familiar territory. When in doubt, bake. I start rummaging through the fridge and pull out eggs and butter before moving to the pantry and grabbing all my dry goods. This kitchen has a sleek blue stand mixer in the corner, and I can’t wait to get a little flour on it.

  I locate the paddle attachment and get the oven preheating in silence while I wait for the microwave to beep, signaling that the butter has been softened to the perfect point. Then, on autopilot, I begin creaming up the butter and brown sugar. I hear a bar stool scrape against the wooden floor over the whirring of the mixer as Patrick pulls it out, but I don’t turn to face him. Instead, I brace both hands on the cool stone countertop, and watch the butter and sugar dance around the shiny bowl. Once the butter is light as a cloud, I crack and add the eggs one at a time. I turn it off to scrape down and begin adding my dry ingredients. I quickly measure and add them all, and with one more quick whiz around the mixer, the cookie dough is ready.

  My movements are calm and practiced as I scoop out perfectly portioned globs of dough onto the baking sheet. Once I slide it onto the middle rack and start the timer, I finally turn to face Patrick. Somehow, I find I can’t quite meet his eyes, so I guess his hands will have to do. They’re relaxed, strong, and lying on the countertop. He’s not a man that fidgets, and I appreciate that about him.

  “Sadie, I really wish you’d talk to me,” he starts. “But if you won’t, can I tell you what I’m thinking? You can chime in when you’re ready.”

  I glance up to see his sincere gaze before quickly dropping my eyes again, and nod.

  “I think we both know that we’re not ready to take things to the next level yet.”

  Tension I didn’t know I’d been holding in my shoulders starts to drain away at those words.

  “However, we still need to decide how we want to handle the expectations of the medical director. They fully expect us to be tracking some things this week, and while I find that ludicrous, we can’t do much about that at the moment.” This time I look up and lock eyes with him.

  He finds it ridiculous, too? The smile he gives me is warm, and this time when he reaches across the counter to hold my hand, I don’t draw it away.

  “Sadie, I told you before that we’d take things at your speed, and I meant it. Nothing has changed. I’m in this for the long haul with you, not just this week. All I ask is that you please don’t pull away from me again. I’d like to keep building this with you, and it felt like you were finally starting to open up to me again.”

  My heart melts a little at his words, and I feel foolish for being so worried earlier. He’s never pushed me, and always been a gentleman. “Thank you, Patrick. I feel the same way. I guess I got overwhelmed when those stupid alarms went off, and my brain started racing a mile a minute. I know what they’re expecting, and Faith already warned me not to put it off because we could get sent to some sort of ‘intensive getaway’”—I use finger quotes—“which is basically solitary confinement for couples.”

  His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Are you serious?”

  I nod. “I would not joke about that.”

  He runs a hand through his dark hair, and I can’t tell if it’s with annoyance or anger. “Don’t worry about that, okay? I will go and talk with the director if I need to. They’re going to have to give us some time here, and it doesn’t matter where they send us, that is not changing.” His voice takes on a protective undertone, and a little shiver runs down my back when he squeezes my fingers.

  I stare into his deep blue eyes, and once again I find myself thankful that he’s who I’m doing this with. Were it not for the political issues, he’d fit right into my family. I frown, realizing we need to discuss his family’s political expectations, too.

  “Patrick, I know we won’t be meeting each other’s families for a while, but what are your parents expecting, exactly?”

  He runs his hand through his hair again, and this time I can tell he’s agitated by my question. He lets out a tired sigh before answering, “That is an excellent question, Sadie.”

  The oven timer beeps, saving him for a moment from answering. I slide the tray out of the oven with the blue paisley oven mitt and set another timer for them to cool before turning back to him.

  “Those smell amazing. Did you really make those from memory?” He sniffs the air like a cartoon character.

  “Yeah, they’re one of my favorites. I know the recipe by heart. Also, you told me once that your mom used to make you chocolate chip cookies, and I never did get around to making you any.” I shrug one shoulder. “I’m a stress baker.”

  “I hate to say it, but I think you should be stressed more often if this is how you deal with it. Can I have one?”

  I can’t help but laugh at that; his excitement is endearing. “Sorry, you’ve got to wait for them to cool or else they’ll fall apart. Besides, we’re supposed to be talking about your family expectations, remember? You can’t do that with a mouth full of cookies.”

  He groans. “That’s the worst reason ever to not give me a cookie.”

  I shake my head and grab two small dessert plates out of the cabinet, and two short glasses. Surprise, they are all blue, too. Grabbing the milk carton from the fridge door, I fill the cups before nailing him with a no-nonsense look. “No talking—no cookies.”

  He raises both hands and says, “Okay, okay. To be honest, I think they’re expecting me to come home soon and start running for office.”

  My jaw drops. I appreciate his honesty, but that’s not what I expected him to say. “But, you’ve been living under an assumed name for years, and it sounds like you barely see them. Why would they expect you to come home and follow along in your dad’s footsteps?”

  He sinks his head into his hands. “As much as I’d like to not think about it, my parents think it’s very likely that there’ll be a vote to move the North American Alliance to a monarchy soon.”

  My stomach clenches at his admission. “Soon, like how soon?” I ask, even though I’m afraid to hear the answer.

  “Within the next five years. The last time I spoke with my father, he said people would be much more comfortable if I was already involved in a public political position before that happens, so they can get to know me.” I can still hear him, despite the fact that he’s currently speaking the words to his fe
et.

  I just stare at him, not sure what else to even ask. The timer beeps, and I woodenly put two warm, melty cookies onto each plate. Sliding one across to him, I dunk my cookie and take a bite. Perfection. At least some things never change.

  He looks up, picks up the bigger cookie, and takes a huge bite. “Oh, my God. I will deny it if you ever try to tell her, but these are even better than my mom’s.” He shoves some errant crumbs in from the corner of his mouth. “If we weren’t already married, I’d marry you again just for these cookies.”

  His enjoyment thaws my frozen thoughts, and I laugh. “You are actually not the first person to say something like that to me.”

  He finishes the cookie in his second bite. “Yeah, but I’m the one that got you, nonetheless.” He closes his eyes happily as he chews and then takes a sip of his milk.

  “And here I thought it was my uterus you were after,” I joke, and he nearly snorts milk out his nose.

  ✽✽✽

  For the next two days, we spent long hours walking on the beach together, sometimes talking, sometimes simply holding hands and taking in the ocean. We also found a hidden stash of board games, which we played on the bed—because the TV was still flashing bubblegum pink. Each night they bring a catered dinner—which, yes, I was originally mad about, but has been delicious. The first night they brought us prime rib, mashed potatoes, and an assortment of veggies in a balsamic reduction. Last night was a whole roasted duck with delicious Asian-themed sides.

  I can’t wait to see what they bring us for dinner tonight. “Personally, I’m hoping for Italian,” I say amiably as we walk back up the beach to our cottage.

  “Italian? It’s Okay, I guess, but I want barbecue.” Patrick says it wistfully. “We haven’t had barbecue once since we’ve been here.”

  “I don’t think that’s likely. It’s been fancy food, not down-home cooking.”