Page 27 of Everywhere You Look

“Better than Ollie’s choice. We’d be Dean and Luke Waaaahhh Pfffft.” He presses his cheeks together and makes a grotesquely hilarious noise that sounds exactly like one of Ollie’s infamous after-meal farts.

“Well then we’d have to hyphenate, of course.”

“Obviously.”

I look at Dean, taking in the amused smile on his face and the way his grey eyes have gone soft and fuzzy around the edges. I remember a few years ago when Gigi got really into reading people’s auras. It was around the time that the twins were going through their terrible twos, and I think she was just looking for anything to distract her from the chaos.

She used to tell me that my aura was always some shade of red, and that that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. She said I was passionate, confident, assertive. That I knew how to get shit done, but that I was also susceptible to falling into the more vibrant side of thespectrum. There, I’d find myself easily frustrated and angered and quick to jump to conclusions based on emotions.

Dean, on the other hand, has a bright yellow aura—at least, according to Gigi. She would always say that Dean’s aura shines out, radiating positivity, warmth, optimism, and an emotional intelligence most people don’t even know to strive for. I don’t know if I believe in all the hippy-dippy, root chakra, spiritual wellness shit my sister was into, but I know she was right about Dean.

He’s all yellow, shining out bright and content to let the rest of us bask in the warmth of his glow. He’s the calm to my chaos, the kindness to my impatience, the solid to my shaky ground. Whether it was sitting by my side while I was the world’s biggest dick recovering from surgery, standing by me through the loss of Gigi, or the way he’s not only dropped everything to help me time and time again, but has slid right into my house and home and made himself a part of my family, his brightness keeps me tethered. He reminds me that there are still good things in this world, and that I might even be deserving of some of his goodness.

He’s bled himself dry for me time and time again, and never hesitates to make the next cut wheneverI’ve needed him. So much so that he just fucking married me.

I take it back. I don’t deserve him. Not one single bit.

And yet, the gorgeous man staring back at me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly-fitted suit pants is all mine.

His parents and sister have been chatting away while I’ve lost myself to my thoughts and my husband’s twilight eyes, but the feel of James Adler’s gaze on us breaks the spell. I sneak a peek at the larger-than-life football team owner out of the corner of my eye, and I catch him assessing Dean and I with an intense look on his face.

He takes a step forward and I suck in a breath, bracing myself for whatever it is he’s going to say to me. I would like to think that ten minutes after a marriage ceremony might not be the best time to publicly ream a former employee out for misconduct, but I’m also aware that world-running billionaires like James don’t play by the same set of rules.

I turn to him, and he steps in until we’re practically standing chest-to-chest.

“For when one of you inevitably says ‘fuck it’,” he says, reaching into my suit jacket and sliding an envelope into the interior pocket.

For when one of you inevitably says ‘fuck it’.

Does that mean…does James know that this marriage isn’t for real?

He simply winks, and that all but confirms it.

Well, I hope we can count James in as one of our safe people…

When he backs away, he puts a hand around Camila’s shoulder.

“Tía, Pops, IronDad, what do you say to joining your daughter and my wife and me for lunch? We’re all child free for the rest of the afternoon, and I think the newlyweds could benefit from some alone time.”

With a chorus of yeses, James takes our rag tag group of unexpected wedding guests under his wing and leads them to an awaiting town car. Meanwhile, Dean and I stand three feet apart while I awkwardly fiddle around in my pocket for my phone to check the time.

“Should we—” I start when I see that it’s only a little past two.

“Maybe we should—” Dean says at the same time, and neither of us finishes our sentence.

I purse my lips while Dean kicks an invisible rock on the sidewalk, quietly whispering a curse in Spanish under his breath. This is so fucking awkward. Why didn’t we talk about this part? I felt prepared for the actual wedding part. I feel preparedfor presenting a united front in court when it comes to the custody of the girls.

What I’m not prepared for is the part where I’m now legally bound to my best friend who, up until two weeks ago, all of my feelings about were mostly platonic and appropriate. But now I know what his lips taste like, and I don’t think that that’s something I’ll ever be able to forget.

I wasn’t prepared for just how fucking badly I want to kiss him again.

Fuck, that kiss. It felt so good. Not just physically—though my body certainly wasn’t complaining about the hum of electricity that shot through it when Dean’s tongue swept into my mouth. It felt good emotionally, too. I’ve never felt a sense of security in a first kiss. That feeling of absolute rightness, like there in the middle of the kiss is exactly where I was meant to be. I didn’t think first kisses like that existed outside of romantic comedies and the tattered paperback novels Gigi would buy from used book stores.

I should have known, though. Everything about Dean has always felt right. I shouldn’t be surprised that his kiss swept me off my feet and made me feel at home all at the same time.

“It’s early,” I say, clearing my throat. “I thought we’d be waiting much longer. What should we do with the rest of our day?”

“I don’t know. Everything feels like it’s either too fancy or not fancy enough to follow up tying the knot.” He pauses and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Fuck. This is weird, isn’t it?”

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