Page 71 of Britta & the Beach Boy
Dex
The bones in my right hand may never recover from the vice grip Britta has them in. The closer our compartment gets to the top of the High Roller, the tighter Britta squeezes, and the more my eyes water. Britta’s dad is crying too, but for less painful reasons. Maybe he’s crying because he thinks I am. Or maybe he’s crying about his little girl marrying a guy whose only skill is surfing.
Rhys says some nice things about marriage and finding true love, so the ceremony looks real. Honestly, it feels authentic enough that some of my tears might not be from pain. I hope, though, that Britta’s face is white from fear of heights and not fear of what she’s getting herself into.
We both benefit from this arrangement, but I’m getting the better end of the deal. Britta is beautiful, smart, and ambitious. She would have figured out how to buyAnnie’swithout me. She could have taken out a loan. I need her heaps more than she needs me.
Rhys perfectly times his speech so that he says the “do you take” part just as we reach the highest point of the ride. The sun turns the bright, gaudy lights of Las Vegas and the brown desert it sprung from into soft hues of golds, yellows, and reds. Britta gasps and loosens her grip on my hand, but I keep hold of hers, like I promised.
We don’t have vows to exchange, just rings. Or a ring.I slip her mother’s ring on her finger. It fits perfectly, and Britta wipes at her cheek. For a second, I wish this were real, for her sake. Then I realize itisreal. Not the madly in-love part, but the marriage part is. We’re officially husband and wife. Rhys just announced it.
He follows up with, “You may kiss the bride!”
This is for sure a necessary moment, and since I don’t know when I’ll have another chance like this, I decide to make the most of it.
I let go of Britta’s hand in mine, and circle my arms around her waist, drawing her closer. The green dress is cut low in the back, and I smooth my thumb over her soft skin until it meets the silky fabric at the small of her back.
Her hands travel across my shoulders and around my neck. She’s so close, I feel her chest rising and falling in quick breaths. The tip of her tongue darts between her lips. That’s all the invitation I need to press my lips to hers.
The trick to riding a barreling wave is to make it last. The force of the wave pushes you forward, but dragging a hand along the wall slows you down. You can ride the wave for longer, all the way to the end, if you can slow down the momentum.
That’s what I want now. The air buzzes with an energy that threatens to make this kiss end too quickly. I may never get the chance to kiss Britta like this again, so I slow it down. I run my hand up her back to the space between her shoulders, letting it rest there before deepening our connection.
I know Britta’s rules, and I’m determined to keep them. But right now, all I want to do is break them and I think I can get away with it.
To be honest, there aren’t many rules Idon’twant to break. But what I feel now is more than rebellion. The force of the wave barreling around us makes me want to pull Britta closer and keep her safe. So, it’s not until she digs her fingers into my back that I rein in my desire.
I want to kiss her so much harder and longer, but even more, I want Britta to trust me. This marriage is primarily a business arrangement, but I want her to understand she’s not a commodity to me.
I like Britta.
I like her a lot.
And I don’t want her getting hurt in all of this, which, I remember, is the reason for all the rules: to avoid heartbreak. I need to remember that.
Britta breaks away first, letting her hands fall to her side, but our eyes stay locked. She smiles softly, and I can’t stop myself from brushing her lips with mine one more time. Then our compartment fills with applause and cheering.
She takes my hand, and we turn to face her family and my friends. Ten minutes later, the wheel stops. Before the doors open, cameras flash in the crowd of people waiting outside the line of ticket holders for the High Roller. In a matter of thirty minutes, people have heard Rhys James is here and gathered to wait for him.
Stella steps off the Ferris wheel first. “Mr. James is here for a wedding and won’t be signing autographs. Please respect his privacy,” she says at the top of her lungs with all the authority of a girlboss.
I clutch Britta’s hand and push my way through the crowd, only looking back once to make sure Rhys is okay. As big a star as he is, he hates this part of being a celebrity. He does whatever he can to avoid being mauled by fans, and he came here knowing it would probably happen.
But Britta’s brothers have circled around him like they’re trained bodyguards and not guys who just met Rhys a few hours ago.
“Your brothers are good guys,” I say to Britta once we’ve made our way out of the flood of people. Ironically, even though it’s my wedding, Rhys takes all the attention and Britta and I end up with a few moments to ourselves.
“The best,” she says before pointing behind me. “I think I found our wedding cake.”
I look over my shoulder at a Sprinkles Cupcakes vending machine. “Never had them, but if that’s what my bride wants, that’s what she gets.”
While the Thomsen brothers escort Rhys to the waiting Escalade, Britta and I empty the vending machine of all its little cakes, forgetting we only have four hands between us. Both of us are trying to balance a dozen cupcakes each in plastic containers in our arms when I hear someone behind me say, “Dude! You’re Liam Dexter!”
I turn to face a kid with wild blonde hair wearing board shorts and thongs. He’s definitely a surfer. I can see it in his eyes.
“Yeah, mate. What’s your name?” I’d shake his hand, but I don’t have a free one myself.
“Brody.”
