The Stranger I Married

Chapter 14: First Gift

They passed a bakery, and the smell of fresh bread drifted out through the open door.

Eve slowed, inhaling deeply.

"Okay, that's unfair."

"What is?"

"That smell." She tugged on his hand. "We're stopping here later. I don't care what else we do."

"You're very demanding."

"I'm very decisive. There's a difference."

He laughed. "I'm beginning to see that."

They passed a small park where a man was selling balloons to a group of children. Eve watched them for a moment, a soft smile on her face.

"Your turn," Alex said.

"My turn for what?"

"Tell me something."

She glanced at him. "Like what?"

"Like—" He considered it. "What's the best thing you've ever eaten?"

She laughed. "That's a very specific question."

"I'm a very specific person."

She shook her head, still smiling. "My grandmother's roast lamb. She makes it for Christmas every year."

"That's a good answer."

"Now you."

He pretended to think. "My grandfather's cooking. He's terrible at it, which is why I love it. He tries so hard, and it's always either burned or undercooked, and we all eat it anyway because he looks so proud of himself."

Eve laughed. "That's the sweetest thing I've heard all day."

"Don't tell him I said that."

"Your secret's safe with me."

She paused. "But you said he's terrible. Is there anything he actually makes well?"

Alex's face lit up. "Yorkshire pudding."

"Yorkshire pudding?"

"The best I've ever had. I don't know how he does it—everything else is a disaster, but that one thing? Perfect. Every time."

Eve laughed. "Now I have to try it."

"You will." He smiled. "I'll make sure of it."

They were still holding hands when they reached the pottery shop. The display in the window caught her attention—bowls in deep blues and greens and earthy browns, each one slightly different from the next. She slowed.

Alex stopped beside her. His hand slipped from hers, and for a moment Eve felt the absence of it.

Then his arm circled her waist, drawing her closer until her back rested against his chest. She felt the warmth of him through her clothes, the steady beat of his heart against her shoulder blade.

"Pick one," he said.

She turned her head. "What?"

He nodded toward the window. "Pick one. If you like it."

Eve looked at the bowls. Then back at him. "I don't need a bowl."

"That's not what I asked."

"Then what are you asking?"

His arm tightened around her waist. "Pick one for the manor. It'll be our first gift. Something we choose together for our house."

Eve felt the words land somewhere deep in her chest. Our house.

She looked at the bowls again—the way the light caught the glaze, the way each one seemed to hold its own particular shade of color. She pointed to one in deep blue.

"That one," she said.

Alex followed her gaze. Then he smiled.

"Good choice."

They went inside. The shop smelled of clay and earth. A woman behind the counter looked up from her work and smiled.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

Eve nodded, still looking at the bowl in the window.

The woman came around the counter. "Each one is unique. My husband makes them by hand. The blue one—" She touched the rim gently. "That's from the lake here. He mixed the glaze himself. Took him three tries to get the color right."

Eve reached out and touched the smooth glaze. It was warm from the sun. "It's perfect."

Alex didn't look at the price. He just pulled out his card and handed it to the woman.

She smiled. "A gift?"

"Something for our house."

Eve looked at him. Something warm moved through her chest.

The woman wrapped it carefully in brown paper, tying it with string. When she handed it to Alex, she looked at Eve with a knowing smile.

"Hold on to this one," she said softly. "He's a keeper."

Eve laughed. "I know."

They stepped back onto the street.

The package was tucked under Alex's arm, and Eve found herself glancing at it as they walked.

"Thank you," she said.

He glanced at her. "For what?"

"For humoring me."

He stopped walking. Turned to face her.

"I wasn't humoring you." His voice was quiet. "I meant what I said. It's our first gift."

"I know that."

"Then why are you thanking me like I did you a favor?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

Because I'm not used to this, she wanted to say. Someone choosing something with me. For us. Like it's real.

She had spent her whole life being seen—but never for herself. The men who came into her orbit saw the Harrington name. The Harrington money. The Harrington connections. They courted her like she was a merger, not a woman.

Alex had looked at her in that bar like she was just a person. And now he was standing here, in a dusty street in a town she'd never heard of, buying her a bowl for a house that was supposed to be his—and calling it theirs.

She looked down at the package in his arm. Brown paper. String. A bowl from a stranger's hands.

"It's just—" She shook her head. "No one's ever done that before."

"Done what?"

"Chosen something with me." She met his eyes. "Not for me. With me. Like what I want actually matters."

He stopped walking. She stopped with him.

For a moment, he just looked at her. Then he lifted her hand—the one still clasped in his—and brought it to his lips. His mouth brushed her knuckles, soft and unhurried, before he lowered their hands but didn't let go.

"Then you'll have to get used to it," he said quietly.

She blinked. "Get used to what?"

"Being considered." His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of her hand. "In every choice that affects our life. What we eat. Where we go. The house we're building together." He held her gaze. "That's what this is, Eve. A partnership. Not a transaction."

Her throat tightened.

"Whatever you want—I mean it, whatever it is—we decide together. You don't have to earn a place at the table. You already have one."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. She could feel the warmth of his lips still lingering on her skin, the steadiness of his hand holding hers.

"All right," she said, her voice softer than she'd intended.

He smiled—not the wry smile she'd seen before, but something quieter. More private.

"Good."

He started walking again, pulling her gently along with him. She followed, and the smile stayed on her face.

They passed a gift shop tucked between two larger stores. Alex slowed.

"What?" Eve said.

He was looking through the window. "I should get something for my mother."

Eve followed his gaze. "Let's go in."

They spent twenty minutes wandering the narrow aisles. Eve watched Alex pick up a cashmere scarf in deep blue, examine it, put it down. Pick up a small pottery vase, turn it in his hands, set it back.

"What does she like?" Eve asked.

He looked at her, startled. "She likes... she likes things that feel personal. That have a story."

"Like what?"

Alex picked up a small wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He opened it, revealing a simple velvet lining—and nestled inside, a small hand-carved bird, its wings outstretched in mid-flight. The wood was warm and smooth, worn at the edges from years of being handled.

Eve leaned closer. "It's beautiful."

"She collects them," Alex said, his voice softer. "Carved birds. She has a whole shelf of them at home. Each one is different—different wood, different artist, different story."

Eve looked at his face. There was something tender there—and something else. Guilt, maybe. Or longing.

"Which one would this be?" she asked.

He turned it over in his hands, studying the grain. "I don't know yet. But she would see it and imagine who made it. Where the wood came from. How long it took." He paused. "She does that with everything. Finds the story in it."

"You miss her," Eve said softly.

He closed the box. "Yes."

"You called them last night."

He looked at her. "I did."

"And?"

He exhaled slowly. "My mother cried. My father asked if I was sure. My grandfather—" A small smile touched his mouth. "My grandfather said he'd never heard me sound like that before."

"Like what?"

"Like I wasn't trying to convince myself."

Eve felt something warm move through her chest.

"They were shocked," he continued. "Upset, at first. They thought I was rebounding—that I'd made a decision I'd regret."

"But they listened."

He met her eyes. "They did. By the end of the call, my mother was asking when she could meet you."

Eve's throat tightened. "What did you tell her?"

"That you'd have to get used to being part of a family that actually shows up for each other."

She laughed—a soft, surprised sound. "That's a lot of pressure."

"No." He shook his head. "It's not pressure. It's just how they are. They'll love you because you're mine."

The words landed somewhere deep in her chest.

She looked down at the box in his hands. The carved bird. The inlaid mother-of-pearl.

"Then we should get her this," she said quietly. "So she knows you were thinking of her."

He looked at her for a moment, something shifting in his expression. Then he smiled—not the wry smile she'd seen before, but something quieter.

"All right," he said.