Chapter 1

Thomas found himself casting furtive glances at Cassandra as they lifted her belongings from the trunk of her car and carried them across the gravel drive toward his house in Bachelor’s Village. The late afternoon sun slanted warm beams through the leafy canopy overhead, and each time she bent to pick up a box—her movements measured and serene—he felt the memory of their wedding night rise unbidden in his mind. That evening, instead of the passionate, heady intimacy he’d imagined, Cassandra had looked at him with bright, hopeful eyes and declared him “clearly gay.”

He’d stood there, stunned, while she beamed at him as though this revelation were a gift. It had felt utterly inexplicable, yet he’d said nothing to correct her. Her joy overwhelmed his confusion, and he’d let her believe what she wished, even if it meant sacrificing a piece of his own pride. In his heart, he’d justified silence by reminding himself that her happiness mattered most. Now, carrying another cardboard box, Thomas reflected bitterly on the swirling advice of his friends. “Happy wife, happy life,” someone—Tyson, he thought—had once told him. Damn you, Zane, he mentally cursed his friend who’d playfully encouraged the thought of a carefree, unconventional marriage. And yet, here he was, trapped in a setup of his own making. He had chosen to marry Cassandra. He had signed the papers. No one forced him to. Responsibility was his alone.

His internal monologue flickered with frustration. He ought to blame his parents for raising him to value tradition, or himself for fluttering at the prospect of marriage just because all his buddies were doing it. But the cold truth was simple: he had willingly stepped into this union, and now he had to own every consequence. Despite that clarity, his mind remained as muddled as ever.

A soft voice stirred him from his reverie. “Thomas, where should I put this box of my clothes?” Cassandra’s tone was gentle, but the earnestness in her question made him pause by the doorway.

Setting the box down on the threshold of the living room, he instantly replied, “Just leave it here. I’ll move it up to our room later.”

Cassandra froze. The corners of her mouth curved with tentative surprise. “O—our room?”

He halted mid-step, realizing how the phrase must have sounded. “Yeah,” he managed, clearing his throat. “I still need to clear out half of my closet to make space for your things.”

Her lips pressed together in a thoughtful line. “We’re…sharing the same room?”

He forced a reassuring smile and shrugged one shoulder. “Well, we’re husband and wife, right? And I promise, I won’t…touch you inappropriately.” His chuckle was hasty, intended to soothe any lingering worry in her mind that he might be a perverted partner.

But Cassandra’s expression softened further, a relaxed smile settling over her face. Thomas realized with a pang that his words had landed quite differently. She must have taken his reassurance as proof that he genuinely didn’t find women attractive—and that, to her, was comforting news indeed. Once again, he felt the weight of her misunderstanding.

Carrying on, he moved several more boxes into the living room while Cassandra hovered nearby, her gaze tracing every piece of furniture, every framed photograph on the mantel. She admired the high ceilings, the gleaming wood floors, and the way afternoon light danced through the curtains. When she noticed Thomas watching her, she turned and offered another bright smile.

“Your house is so lovely,” she said, stepping closer. “I heard from my mother that you’re well off, but I didn’t expect anything this…expansive.”

Thomas cleared his throat, smothering the impulse to correct her again. “Our house, you mean.” His tone was casual, but he felt a swell of protectiveness.

She clasped her hands behind her back, standing a little straighter. “Yes, our house.”

An awkward silence settled, broken only by the soft hum of cicadas drifting in through the open windows. Cassandra hesitated, her forehead creasing in concentration as she searched for the right words.

“Thomas…what should I do as your wife?” she finally asked, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I don’t really know what being a wife entails. I have some ideas, but I’m not…sure.”

He couldn’t help but grin. Of all the many absurdities of their situation—the mistaken orientation, the sudden marriage, the uneasy truce of their honeymoon night—this question struck him as both touching and comical. They’d been strangers but days ago, and now they were partners in life. In a sense, they were both infants, learning to crawl and stand upright in the murky territory of matrimony.

“I’m not really sure either,” Thomas admitted, stepping onto the plush rug to join her in the center of the room. “A few months ago, I didn’t even want to get married. Then one thing led to another, and here we are.”

Cassandra let out a strained laugh that trembled on the edge of tears and amusement. “What the hell is our relationship, anyway?”

He chuckled softly. “You and me both, honey.”

She settled onto the edge of the long sofa, her legs swinging slightly as she faced him. “How about we set some rules?” she suggested. “You know…boundaries, expectations. I mean, we’re both…inexperienced with each other, and we’ve both been involved before. But I think we can handle this like adults, right?”

Thomas studied her for a moment. Her posture was hopeful, earnest. He admired her determination to make this marriage work—especially since she had nowhere else to go if it didn’t. He lowered himself onto the single armchair opposite her, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“How about we start by just getting to know each other?” he proposed, his voice gentle. “No pressure, no rules yet. Just…talk.”

Cassandra nodded, relief blooming in her eyes. “Okay. Um…what do you want to know about me first?”

He grinned, the tension in his chest easing. “Food. You know I’m a chef. What’s your favorite dish?”

She laughed, the sound light and melodic. “That’s so practical of you. Favorite food? Well…I have a sweet tooth.”

Thomas’s eyes twinkled with interest. “Specific cravings?”

“Almonds coated in chocolate,” she confessed, smiling at the memory of her last indulgence.

“Any allergies?” he asked, his tone shifting to professional concern.

“Not that I’m aware of,” she replied.

He nodded, filing the information away mentally. After a moment, he ventured another question. “Any ex-boyfriends I should know about? Anyone who might still have feelings for you? Just so I can…prepare my knives.” He lifted an imaginary dagger, his voice teasing.

Cassandra laughed outright this time, the sound richer than before. “No, nothing like that.”

He studied her face. “You didn’t have any serious exes?”

She shook her head. “There was someone, once, but it didn’t last. We parted ways.”

Thomas let out an audible sigh of relief. “That’s good. I’m glad.” It sounded feeble even to his own ears, but the weight of worry it lifted from his chest was real.

Then Cassandra leaned forward, her eyes shining with curiosity. “What about you? Anything I should know about your love life? I don’t want to step on any old wounds or…get in the way.”

He felt the familiar pang of guilt as he remembered how she would react if she knew the truth. She trusted him enough to share her past; he couldn’t betray that trust now. So he offered her a gentle smile and tucked his hands between his knees.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said softly. “Let’s leave it at that for now.”

Her smile faltered, replaced by subtle concern. “Did you…break up with someone?” she ventured, voice low.

He froze, taken aback by the directness. His mouth parted, then closed without forming a word. Cassandra’s eyes widened, and she immediately pressed her hand to her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

It took him a moment to recover. He inhaled slowly, willing his heart to settle. “It’s okay,” he finally managed, relief and bewilderment mingling in his voice. As he watched her, his mind whirled at the silent questions dancing between them.

Cassandra sank back into the sofa cushions, cheeks flushed. “Sorry,” she whispered again, voice small. “I promise I won’t ask about your love life anymore.”

And in the hush that followed, Thomas realized that maybe, just maybe, this was how they would begin: one hesitant truth at a time, forging a bridge between misunderstandings and the genuine connection they both longed for.