Page 63 of Devil's Iris
Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself firmly.This isn’t real. None of this is real.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of seating charts, lighting cues, floral arrangements, vows, and the first dance. When Marcy asks if we’ve started practicing yet, my eyes almost bulge out of my skull.
“Not yet,” Romero answers, leaning in to brush a kiss to my temple. His lips are so warm and soft that, despite my heart trying to escape my chest, I can’t help soaking up the touch like I’ll never get another chance.
This isn’t real,I repeat more fiercely in my head.
“We probably won’t practice,” he continues. “We want it to feel natural.”
Marcy all but swoons, eating up every word. “Of course! That’s so much more romantic than choreographed routines.”
Once she’s satisfied we’ve covered every important detail, she gives us a tour of the place: the bridal and groom suites, the kitchens, the restrooms. She saves the ballroom for last, wavinga hand across the spacious room where the ceremony will take place.
“You can’t see it now because it’s still empty, but it’s going to be absolutely magical,” she boasts with a proud beam. After seeing her vision on her iPad, I believe her.
By the time we’re back in the car, I’m both exhausted and starving. The sun has long since set, and my stomach is growling loudly enough to wake the dead. Romero leans forward and tells his driver to take us to a nearby restaurant.
“You did good there,” he says as we pull away. His tone is impossible to read, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes my pulse trip over itself.
“I didn’t lay it on too thick?” I tease, and his lips quirk up, his gaze roaming across my face. The air between us suddenly thickens, thrumming with tension that makes it hard to breathe, and I quickly look away from him, choosing to stare out the window instead.
Romero doesn’t answer. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of the ride, and dinner is equally silent. I dig into my meal, barely slowing down, but every few bites I catch him watching me before he goes back to his own plate.
It isn’t until we’re back in the car, heading home, that he finally breaks it. “You might not see much of me the next few days. I have a lot to wrap up before the wedding and the honeymoon.”
“Honeymoon?” The word comes out as a squeak. “I didn’t realize we’d go on one.”
“Real couples always go on honeymoons, even if it's just for a couple of days,” he replies matter-of-factly. “And we’re pretending to be a real couple who’s madly in love, remember?”
My heart thuds at the thought of a few days alone with him in a hotel room, forced to play newlyweds. What will we even do?
When my core clenches involuntarily, I have to bite back a whimper.Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what could happen. Don’t think about his hands on your skin or his mouth on yours or?—
Stop.
I push the dirty thoughts out of my head and face forward, staring straight ahead until we reach home.
The next couple of days fly by quickly, and before I know it, it’s Thursday—the day of the bachelorette party.
I’m standing outside the front door, twiddling my thumbs, Romero beside me, radiating tension like a live wire. He’s been on the phone for the past twenty minutes, speaking to what sounds like half the city.
“Are you sure you don’t know where they’re going?” The aggravation in his voice is palpable.
He’s talking to Maximo now, trying to fish out information on where the girls are taking me. Safe to say, he doesn’t like surprises, and he’s clearly frustrated that he’s being kept in the dark about this whole thing.
The girls have been completely secretive about their plans, making sure not to mention anything about what we’re doing in the group chat. Theydefinitelyhave another group where they coordinate.
All I got was a cryptic message last night:Get ready to leave home by 10 am. Wait for us outside. We’re picking you up.
That’s it. No other details.
So mysterious. So terrifying.
Romero mutters something in Italian that sounds particularly creative, and I don’t need to understand the language to know it’s a curse word. He hangs up and immediately starts dialing another number.
That’s when we hear it—music.
A sleek black limo appears in the road ahead, the sound blasting from inside. It’s so loud I can feel it in my chest, and I have to bite back a laugh at the expression on Romero’s face. His jaw goes tight, but before he can say whatever he’s thinking, I place a hand on his arm.
