Page 4 of Merlot Marriage

Cassie laughs. “I was just telling Philip he should make you Mrs. van der Merwe so he doesn’t have to go back to South Africa.”

I know she’s just being her usual romantic-slash-diabolical self, but seeing Ophie’s cheeks turn bright pink at being called “Mrs.” does funny things to my stomach. At the same time, my mind grasps for something to say to distract Cassie from her line of thought. Better not to protest too much, or she’ll be suspicious.

“Cassie, you promised,” Ophie whispers, looking around as if someone might hear her. She moves like a little bird, head darting to and fro, hands opening and closing the embossed leather folio we received on stage with the same nervous energy she clicks her pen when she’s past the point of productive studying.

“What did she promise? Not to call you Mrs. van der Merwe?” I tease. Pulling her folio away before she breaks it, I stack it with my own, then give in to the urge to rile her up. It’s so easy, I can’t help myself. Self-control has never been my strong suit, and when it comes to Ophie, I have almost none.

I glance around but don’t see her family anywhere, so I wink at Cassie and TJ before throwing my arm over her shoulder.

The movement knocks her unzipped robe off one shoulder. With a squeak, she grabs at it, but that only sends it sliding farther off her silky skin. I move back to give her space while she wrestles to get the bulky fabric back in place. Her hood keeps tangling with her elbow, and Ophie’s grunts of frustration get louder and funnier with each attempt.

“That. You know.” Even as she fights with her hood, she doesn’t quit arguing with me. Naturally, I have to argue back. Especially with an audience eating up our playful banter, their eyes big as saucers.

“I know what?”

“Philip, come on.”

“Come on what?” I snicker at my own joke, and Ophie goes a shade pinker. TJ reaches out, and I high-five him as Cassie digs an elbow into his side.

“Gross.” Gown straightened, she takes a deep breath but still doesn’t meet my eyes. “Don’t call methat.” My girl glares at me, obviously annoyed that I’m playing into Cassie’s suggestion, who has no idea that Ophie and I beat her to the altar. The double meaning behind every word of our argument just makes the whole thing more fun.

I haven’t had this much fun inweeks.

I lean close, tugging Ophie’s hood straight over her unzipped gown. The blue dress she’s wearing underneath does amazing things to her tits. Not that I’m looking. I swear.

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Ophie van der Merwe.” I dance back a few steps to avoid getting a swat, her hand whipping past my stomach with enough force that I’m grateful my reflexes are as fast as they are. Her dark hair swings with the movement, the scent of her shampoo wafting back into my nose.

I’ve been breathing it in for two years, the slightly floral scent drawing me in like a bee to a flower.

The flower in question is glaring at me more like a Venus flytrap than a rose. She stomps the two steps to close the distance between us, lifting up on her toes and jabbing a finger into my chest. “I am not, and I never will be, Mrs. van der Merwe.” Her American tongue struggles to roll therproperly, but her “Fun der Mer-ve” is as close as most non-Afrikaners can get.

Something playful and wicked breaks free inside my chest at Ophie’s vehement denial. So instead of responding, I drop to one knee in front of her.

Gasps fill the air around us.

Cassie squeals, and in my peripheral vision, the milling crowd forms a loose circle around us. Girls I don’t know whisper excitedly, tugging on the people beside them.

“Ophelia Moore…” I drag out my words, staring at the hem of her black robe that’s now close to eye level. As I look up at her from this angle, her blue dress dancing in the breeze and pink lips parted, the carefully walled off bit of my heart that’s kept my love for her designated as strictly platonic slips, and something a little more intense floods in. The strength of the emotion takes me by surprise, and my voice cracks as I speak, ruining the playful tone I was going for. “Will you—”

I’m cut off by an ear-piercing cry of “Ophelia!”

Shit.

Now I’ve done it.

I grab the zipper pull at the hem of her gown. “—let me zip you up?”

Clearing the unexpected thickness in my throat, I hook the bottom of the zipper together and zip up Ophelia’s robe as quickly as I can, pushing up to my feet as I do. Her mom comes barreling toward us, her excited noises getting louder as she approaches.

“Ophie, darling, who’s this? You didn’t tell us you had a boyfriend.”

Making sure of my smile, I turn and wave. “Hi, Jenny.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Moore stops short, recognition dawning on her face. “Hi, Philip. I didn’t recognize you from the back.” She waves a hand at the slowly thinning crowd. “All the robes make everyone look the same.”

Heat floods the back of my neck at Jenny’s dismissal. “No worries. It’s nice to see you again.” I relax my stance, giving Ophie some space.

“Still playing jokes, I see.” Mark steps up beside her, a hand resting on her shoulder.

---