Page 41 of Walkoff Wedding

I shouldn’t like that so fucking much, but I do.

“Ever?”

“Ever,” she whispers before swallowing roughly. “I mean, unless you count in the second grade when Grady Owens kissed me against the monkey bars, but I am not sure that it does. Count, I mean.”

A laugh slips from the back of my throat, and I shake my head. “No, I don’t think it does, ArtGirl. So, we… start at the basics? Work our way up until you’re the one initiating the PDA.”

Her expression sobers, and she blows out a shaky breath. “Could you… teach me? What to do? So we can convince everyone?”

A heavy pause passes between us, and I lick my lips. I’m finding it hard to even process thoughts right now, knowing I’m the only one who’s ever kissed… my wife. And that now the dynamic is changing, and I don’t hate the way it’s going.

“Well, married people kiss. A lot,” I say gruffly, suddenly aware of how close her lips are to mine and how fucking much I wish I could taste them again. Her warm breath cascades along my lips, something I know I could find myself becoming addicted to if I’m not careful.

“So, we should… practice that?”

Smirking, I nod, my gaze lingering on hers. “Definitely. We should probably practice a lot. You know, just to make sure we get it right. So much practicing. Actually, all the practicing.”

The rational part of me says how bad of an idea this is, barreling past lines that will too easily become blurred, but I’m not paying attention.

I’m too caught up in Addie. Later, I’ll deal with my rational side, but for now, I’m going to be delusional and pretend that we’re not getting ourselves into something we might not be able to come back from.

“That’s the plan. We aren’t letting this fucker win. We’ll be the most convincing couple anyone’s ever seen. They’ll be sick of us by the time we’re done showing them how real we are.” My fingers gently trace her jaw, and I smirk. “Let’s do this, wifey.”

chapter thirteen

Addie

After spending the majority of my life on a bakery schedule, 3:00 a.m. wake-up calls usually aren’t so bad. You kind of just get used to waking up when it’s still dark outside when you’ve done it for so long.

Except this morning, I’ve already snoozed my alarm three times because I can’t seem to drag myself out of Grant’s ridiculously comfortable bed. Seriously, it feels like I’m enveloped in the warmest, fluffiest cloud imaginable, and the last thing I want to do is leave it. Not only is it the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in, but the sheets smell just like my new husband, and the scent is intoxicatingly maddening.

When my alarm goes off for the fourth time, and I glance over at my phone, seeing the time is now three thirty, making me late… I groan quietly before tossing the covers off.

I can count on one hand how many times I haven’t shown up to work at Ever After since I started working there when I was barely a teenager. And most of those were days that I was so sick that I could hardly get out of bed.

So, missing a morning because I’m too tired, even after all the drama of yesterday, isn’t happening. It’s my responsibility, and that means I have to show up, even when it’s hard. I got married yesterday, and I’m still going to work.

Since it’s technically still the middle of the night, I quietly tiptoe around the bedroom, shedding off my T-shirt and sleep shorts, careful not to be too loud. The couch is right down the hallway, and I don’t want to wake Grant up this early.

Which is a lot easier said than done because it’s pitch-black in here, and I have no clue where half of my stuff is. After searching mostly blindly for a few minutes, I find the bag I shoved my uniform in and get it on before heading to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put my hair up.

Once I’m finished, I turn the light off and wrench the bathroom door open, running smack into a warm, hard chest that groans groggily at the collision.

“Shit, Addie?” Grant’s raspy, sleep-filled voice fills my ears, and I realize that my hands are splayed on his hard, sculpted chest. Not that I can see a single thing because it’s so freakin’ dark.

“Yes. Sorry,” I squeak, immediately dropping my hands and stumbling backward, inadvertently bumping my hip painfully into the door handle in the process. “Ouch.”

Seconds later, the hall light flicks on, and Grant peers down at me, his hair mussed from sleep with only one eye cracked open.

Suddenly, it’s harder to breathe, not just because of the pain radiating up my hip from the stupid doorknob but because he’s standing in front of me wearing nothing but a tight pair of black boxer briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

My mouth runs dry. I’m actually in danger of swallowing my tongue.

His briefs hang dangerously low, revealing the two sharp dips of his hips and a dark trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband. I try to count the number of abs on his stomach but then realize how inappropriate it is to be checking out… my husband.

I’m pretty sure I’ll never get used to that sentiment, whether it’s fake or not.

My cheeks flame as I tear my gaze from his stomach and drag it up to meet his eyes, where he’s grinning arrogantly.

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