Page 35 of Inconvenient Marriage
It’s for the best. Emotions are running high tonight, and if I’m not careful, I can’t get myself into even more trouble. Besides, this is what I wanted, isn’t it? A marriage of convenience? Afakehusband?
I wait for him to head for the front door, looking at the floor instead of in his pretty face. Then, dress clutched to my chest, I hurry into my bedroom and close the door.
I have to take my hair out. I have to wash the make-up from my face. I have to figure out a way to get the red wine stain out before it sets and my ‘wedding’ dress is ruined. First, though, I shimmy out of it. After I lay it out on my bed, seeing how much damage that klutzy waitress did, I throw on a pair of pajamas I would’ve never dared wear in Eric’s house: an oversized t-shirt for just this purpose, plus a pair of cozy sleep pants almost as silky as my dress.
Phone, I think. I left my purse on the couch, and if I want to look up how to get that stain out, I need my phone. So, still made-up, my hair still done, I pad out in my bare feet to my living room—and let out a muffled shriek when I find someone sitting on my couch. I clapped my hands over my mouth faster than I’m able to recognize him.
Heart racing, I throw my hands down at my side. “Sebastien? I thought you left!”
He holds up my phone. “Sorry, love. I found this on the floor of my car. It must’ve fallen out of your purse or off your lap during the car ride over. I thought you’d might want it.”
Oh. “Thank you. I’m sorry for screaming. You… you startled me.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“No. No, I know that. But thanks.” I go over to him, holding out my hand. He drops my phone against my waiting palm, though he doesn’t get up from my two-seater couch.
Well, that’s not totally awkward, is it?
“That’s not all you forgot, either, love.”
My brows knit. My purse, my keys, my phone… “I… what else did I forget?”
My new husband stands up from the couch, slowly and deliberately, before he moves until he’s standing right in front of me.
I let out a shaky breath as he tilts my chin up with a knuckle. And then he kisses me.
One hand slides to my jaw, the other to my waist, anchoring me to him like he can’t bear the idea of any kind of space between us. His mouth is warm and slow, devastatingly tender, but underneath it is purewant. It’s the kind that tells me he’s been starving for me since our last kiss, back at St. Catherine’s.
He pulls back just enough to breathe against my lips.
“God,” he whispers. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that again. And that peck at the church didn’t count, Annaliese.Thatis the kind of kiss I expect.”
My fingers curl into his shirt. I don’t even realize I’m doing it as I ask, “What do you mean?”
“I’m your husband,” he reminds me, eyes dark and lazy, but undeniably possessive. “I expect a kiss ‘hello’ and a kiss ‘goodbye’.”
Breaking away from me, my hands untangling from the fabric of his dress shirt, he reaches inside of his jacket. With a crooked grin, he pulls out a pen.
He holds it out to me. “You can put that provision in your copy of the contract.” The grin develops a wicked edge that makes my knees go weaker than they were during our kiss. “I’m sure as hell adding it to mine.”
I wakeup the next morning, halfway convinced that yesterday was one hell of a dream. I didn’t really marry Sebastien Reynolds, did I?
Two things assure me that I did: the whisper of his cologne lingering in my apartment, somehow seeping into my room, plus the weight of the gold band on the fourth finger of my left hand.
After our kiss, he left, and listening to his comments about keeping ‘his wife’ safe, I double-checked that I locked the door and the windows. Then I took one cold ass shower, trying to keep from begging him to take me again. Instead I touched myself to the memory of that night in the Last Prayer before curling up alone in my bed.
I’m there now, still stunned that this… this happened. This is my life now. And, sure, nothing’s really changed except my last name and my marital status in the eyes of the Order, but I can’t help but think that my life as I know it will never be the same.
And I get confirmation of that about an hour later when my phone buzzes and I pick it up, reading the text message that just came in:
HUBBY
Good morning, Mrs. Reynolds. I have reservations for dinner tonight at Guiseppe’s. I’ll pick you up at seven.
My mouth falls open. Dinner? What does that mean? Is Sebastien… is my fake husband asking me out?
Well, no, he’s not asking me anything. He’s telling me that we’re going out to dinner, and I can’t think of any reason to refuse him.
