Don't Kiss the Bride: An Age Gap, Marriage of Convenience Romance

by Carian Cole

  Jude was right. Dr. Katz hooked me up to an IV and asked me to count backward from ten. I got to seven, and that’s all I remember. I wake up with my mouth stuffed with cotton and the nurse smiling at me.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Okay,” I mumble, blinking. “It’s over?”

  She nods. “It sure is. You did great. I’ll go get your husband. You can rest here for a few minutes, and then you can go home.”

  My husband.

  It sounds so weird hearing someone refer to him that way.

  I can’t say I dislike it, because it makes my insides feel warm and fluttery.

  Or maybe that’s the anesthesia. I stare at a painting of flowers on the wall. One looks like it’s smiling.

  Smiling back, I let my heavy eyelids fall closed.

  The next time I open my eyes, Jude is sitting in a chair in the corner of the recovery room with his leather jacket on his lap.

  “Wakey wakey,” he teases.

  I blink at him and try to move my mouth. My entire head and face feel numb and oddly disconnected from the rest of me.

  “You ready to go home, Sparkles?” he asks.

  Nodding, I try to sit up, clutching the arms of the exam chair. Jude bolts over and helps me stand, keeping his arm around me as he walks me out of the office and to his truck. I’m too woozy to protest when he lifts me up into the passenger seat.

  “I already got your prescriptions filled,” he says when he gets behind the wheel. “This way we can go straight home.”

  I nod and mumble a thank-you.

  “You’re gonna feel messed up for a few days. Just take your meds and sleep it off.”

  I want to tell him that Lisa Rottworth saw us together, and thanks to the receptionist’s big mouth, she knows we’re married and has probably organized a group meeting to orchestrate the best way to circulate this scandalous development to the entire town and beyond.

  But my mouth hurts, my head is floating like a balloon, and talking just seems impossible.

  “We’re married…” I whisper, leaning back against the headrest. “Lisa’s a big bitch… You broke the rule…”

  More unintelligible, nonsensical words spurt from my mouth, along with a bloody cotton ball that plops into my lap.

  Yelping with horror, I pick it up and toss it out the window.

  “Oh my God…” I moan, fighting to clear my vision. “Why am I dying?”

  “You’re not dying. You’re just high as a kite. Don’t try to talk. We can take the gauze out when we get home. Just bite down on it for now.”

  All this cotton in my mouth has me petrified. What’s stopping me from swallowing it and choking on it? Especially when I can’t even think straight?

  How can this possibly be safe?

  I am never, ever, ever having surgery again.

  My cell phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. I’m sure it’s just Megan checking in on me, but I feel too out of it to chat.

  Chapter 28

  Skylar

  I’m a liar.

  I’ve told myself, and anyone else who will listen, that I don’t believe in love. Or marriage. Or soulmates. Or partners. Or happily ever afters.

  But the truth is, I do believe in all of it. I just don’t believe I’ll ever have it.

  Maybe I was wrong about everything.

  Because Jude, who also seems to be lying to himself about all the same things, is turning all my beliefs upside down.

  Earlier, he helped me up to my bedroom and gently removed the bloody gauze from my mouth without the slightest hesitation. He didn’t act grossed out or annoyed at all.

  As disgusting and embarrassing as it was, I was grateful because I don’t think I could’ve done it myself without hurling.

  It was then that I noticed he must’ve come back to the house while I was still in surgery, because he had my bedroom all ready for me. The comforter and sheets were turned down. The shades were drawn. A bottle of water, a new paperback book, an ice pack, and the TV remote were waiting on the nightstand. A white, greeting-card sized envelope with my name written across the front was leaning against my alarm clock.

  Drowsy, I crawled into bed and must’ve fallen asleep immediately.

  When I wake, my mouth throbs as I sit up in bed, but the pain isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I mostly feel sore and tired.

  As I pad out to the hall, my eye catches the greeting card envelope again. I decide to open it later. My heart clenches when I get to the bathroom, and I see he’s left a shaker of salt on the vanity so I can rinse with warm salt water as the dentist directed.

  He thought of everything.

  My breath hitches with a surge of emotion I can’t even describe.

  What is all this?

  Up until now, I’ve always been on my own when I’ve been sick—alone in my room at my mom’s, struggling to take care of myself during fevers, food poisoning, colds, and flus.

  This care from him is foreign and overwhelming, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Is he just a nice guy doing me a favor? Did he take our fake vows to heart and is now embracing them?

  Or is it possible that love doesn’t let us choose if we believe in it or not? Does it just happen?

  The voices in my head form a circle, surrounding me, and chant, He’ll never love you. You don’t get love. He’ll never love you.

  I’m not going to think about it. It’s ridiculous. Being nice isn’t love. It’s just basic human decency. If anything, he feels sorry for me.

  On my way out of the bathroom, I run right into him in the hall. I laugh a little when I notice we could almost be twins—both of us wearing gray sweatpants and white T-shirts.

  “You’re awake,” he says. “I was just coming to check on you.”

  I smile groggily at him. “I just woke up.” Even after a five-hour nap post- surgery, I still feel weak and foggy from the anesthesia.

  “Good timing. I made you a protein shake.” He holds up a tall glass and a spoon.

  “Oh.” My smile withers. “Thank you.” I take it from him and he follows me to my room, where we sit on my bed together.

  “I made it right—it’s new almond milk, brand-new vanilla protein powder that I just opened today, and ice cubes.”

  I stare at it with trepidation. It’s not just a shake. It’s a twenty-ounce glass full of bad memories. When I was eight years old, I was so hungry I drank a milkshake that had been left in the fridge for over a week. It was lumpy and sour and it took over my body for three horrible days. I can still taste the thick vileness in my mouth.

  I fight the urge to gag as I swirl the spoon though the shake, searching for lumps or bumps. There aren’t any.

  This isn’t that shake.

  This is safe and fresh. What I would label clean.

  But still…

  Jude watches me with a raised eyebrow and I feel like crying. He’s trying so hard and I’m so fucked up inside. I wish I could have something different to eat or drink, but almost everything liquid or mushy scares me. It’s all so blended and unidentifiable.

  I want my bread and butter.

  It never occurred to me that my go-to safe foods would be uneatable at a time like this. I feel betrayed.

  Maybe I lied to myself about my eating habits just as much as I lied to myself about love. I thought I was keeping myself safe, but all I was doing was nurturing a bigger problem.

  “You have to put something in your stomach,” he says softly. “I promise it’s safe to drink.”

  My jaw muscles ache as I smile at him. “I trust you,” I say.

  Slowly, I drink the shake while he distracts me by talking about the house and the rest of the renovations he wants to do. He asks me about paint colors and furniture as he brings up pictures on his cell phone for me to see and choose from.

  It’s sweet how excited he is about remodeling, and it works—having my mind engaged in something positive doesn’t allow me to focus on food textures and bad memories.
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  “That was really good,” I say when I take the last sip of the shake. I peek at him from behind the curtain of my hair. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

  He shrugs. “It’s kinda my favorite hobby now.”

  My heart flip-flops when he winks at me after saying that.

  “Do you want to stay and watch a movie with me?” I ask after I take my antibiotic and two Tylenol. I’ve decided not to take the pain killers because I’m afraid they’ll make me sick. “I feel too wobbly to go downstairs.”

  The way his eyes shift uneasily from the television to the bed makes me regret asking and putting him on the spot. I’m sure hanging out with me again on a Saturday night isn’t his idea of a good time.

  “Um… sure.” He rubs his hand across his chin. “Okay.”

  His less-than-enthusiastic reply tamps down the happiness I felt just moments ago.

  “You don’t have to, if you have plans,” I say quickly. “I’m totally fine. Just sore and sleepy. Gus and Cassie will keep me company.”

  “No… I don’t have any plans. I’ll hang with you for a bit.”

  “I have to warn you, I’m planning on watching The Notebook. It’s the ultimate chick flick,” I tease. “If you want to change your mind, I’ll let you out of it.”

  He groans. “Nah, I’ll suffer through it just this one time ’cause you had a bad day.”

  I haven’t told him about Lisa Rottworth yet. I’m hoping I imagined that she was texting Paige about me being married, and that she didn’t hear Jude’s conversation with the receptionist at all.

  We get settled on my bed by piling a bunch of throw pillows up against the headboard. I turn off the ceiling light, switch on the small lamp next to my bed with the cool, blue bulb, then pull my fleece throw blanket up over both of us.

  “All comfy now? Or do we need ten more pillows?” he asks with his thumb hovering over the play button on the remote.

  I smile. “I’m good.”

  “The things I do for you,” he jokes when the movie opens with its romantic, foreshadowing scenes.

  “Shush,” I say, secretly loving everything he does. “And it’s okay if you cry at the end. I won’t think less of your masculinity.”

  He scoffs, but grins. “I ain’t gonna cry over a movie, Sparkles.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Right around the middle of the movie, I slip into a sleepy, warm, relaxed state. I feel cozy and safe in my pretty room, under the soft blanket, with Jude and our two fur babies. I inch closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder, quietly inhaling the scent of his cologne. When we’re close like this, everything in my world feels better, and I can’t imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else.

  “I like being close to you,” I whisper.

  “I like being close to you, too,” he whispers back, gently putting his arm around me and pulling me closer.

  “You always make me feel better. You’re a good husband,” I tease. But actually, it’s true. If I ever wanted to get married for real, I’d want to be married to someone like him.

  “You’re a pretty good wife,” he teases back.

  I turn toward him slightly, tilting my face up toward his, and he kisses my cheek.

  “I can’t kiss you,” he says, in a voice so low I can barely hear him over the movie.

  My happiness wilts. “Why?”

  He stares at the movie, where Noah and Allie are bickering adorably. The muscles in his jaw twitch. I wait for what seems like forever for him to turn his attention back to me.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he finally says.

  Avoiding my eyes, he brushes a few stray hairs from my forehead.

  “Hurt me how?” I ask.

  “Your mouth, baby,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt your mouth.”

  The tone of his voice hints at reasons that go much deeper than that.

  I move my tongue over my lower lip, enticed by how his darkening eyes fixate on my mouth.

  “Then kiss me somewhere else,” I say softly, curling my fingers into the thin fabric of his shirt.

  Inhaling deeply, he finally rests his eyes on mine, and he holds my gaze for a long time—maybe waiting for me to falter and look away.

  I don’t.

  “Is that what you want?” His lips touch my nose, then wait, hovering just a breath away.

  I nod as we breathe against each other. “Yes.”

  My answer is a subtle invitation. If he chooses to accept it, then any touching or kissing from this point forward won’t be an oops or an accident.

  It’ll be a conscious choice. A decision we made together right here on my bed.

  Fisting my hair, he gently pulls my head back, angling my neck up toward him. My eyes fall closed as he presses his lips to my throat and holds them there, warm and soft, before lightly sucking. My breath catches when he slowly drags his mouth up to briefly touch mine—whisper soft and gentle—before lifting up and bringing his lips back down to the base of my throat. Open-mouthed, teeth grazing. Grabbing his shirt, I pull him closer. His grip tightens in my hair as we meld together under the blanket.

  My body hums as he ravishes my neck then moves to my collarbone, breathing heavily against me. My head is spinning—either from the surgery or the fervor he’s igniting in me—maybe both. All I know is I don’t want it to ever stop.

  Holding the back of his neck, I attempt to pull him up to my mouth, desperate to have his lips on mine. Screw the pain.

  I don’t care.

  I want him.

  “No,” he says, pulling back and staring at me with mischief and lust in his eyes. “Behave or I’ll stop.”

  His words only make me want him even more.

  “Don’t stop,” I whisper.

  He slowly lifts my T-shirt, his gaze still riveted on mine. My shallow breaths match his, as inch by inch, he pushes the material up until it’s bunched under my neck. His eyes lower, lingering over my naked breasts. His fingers tighten around my waist, telling me he likes—wants—what he sees.

  “I’ve been dying to kiss you again…to be close to you again.” His ragged breath against my flesh sends goosebumps over my chest and arms. “It’s all I fucking think about.”

  Slowly, he moves his lips over my breasts, trailing his tongue in lazy, taunting circles around one, then the other, back and forth, until I feel like I might scream. The scruff of his stubble grazes over my sensitive skin in the wake of his tongue. I had no idea the alternation of soft and coarse could be so crazy tantalizing.

  A short gasp escapes me when his mouth finally sinks over my nipple and his teeth gently tug it to meet his flicking tongue.

  Clutching the back of his neck, I run my hands through his long hair, weaving it through my fingers—something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time. I arch myself up to him, wanting more. He delivers by skimming a calloused hand across my lower body, caressing my rib cage before moving down farther. He pauses for a fraction of a second, just below my naval. His breath is hot and shallow against my breast. I can feel the internal debate coursing through his veins.

  I don’t want us to turn back.

  Reaching down, I cover his hand with mine, gently push it beneath the waistband of my panties, then slip my hand away.

  A groan rumbles deep in his throat, and it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.

  His fingertips brush over the soft hair. My body writhes with want as he sucks my breast hungrily into his mouth. My heart pulses faster. His hand feels so good, so incredibly warm. Comforting and electrifying at the same time. My stomach muscles flutter with a million butterflies in anticipation of his touch.

  “Jude…” I breathe.

  When he looks up at me, his hair falls into his face in the sexiest of ways. His lips are glistening from kissing me. I’ve daydreamed about being kissed by him again—a kiss that isn’t just a quickie, or an oops. I need a kiss that makes me feel like he wants me. With no hesitation. A kiss that says you’re mine.

  I didn’t
know I wanted to be anyone’s until we kissed on our wedding day. Maybe the kiss at the end of vows has magical powers. Because that one little oops changed everything.

  “Do you want me to touch you?” he asks with his hand still pressed against me, unmoving.

  “Hello?” I say, wincing from the pain of grinning. “Are you kidding?”

  He doesn’t laugh. “I need to hear you say it, Sparkles.”

  Oh. This isn’t one of our teasing moments. This is serious. As it should be. I touch his cheek, and my heart melts when he turns to press a kiss to my palm.

  How is it that he can look so rough and sexy, and still be so incredibly sweet?

  “Yes,” I whisper, all kidding gone. “I want you to touch me, Lucky.”

  “Good,” he whispers, and dips his head down into my hair to kiss the sensitive spot just below my ear.

  A warm shiver jets down my spine as his hand slides farther down beneath my panties. Wrapping my arms around him, I pull him closer and move my hands slowly up and down over the hard muscle of his back. The strength and solidity of him is so magnetic and grounding. I crave the safeness he makes me feel.

  Actually, I crave everything he makes me feel.

  Taking a breath, I part my legs, and he delves between my thighs. The moment his fingers touch my lips I let out a whimper and push myself up into his hand. He rains kisses from my neck to my chest while he works magic on me. His fingers strum the curve of my lower lips. His thumb presses against my clit and rubs it in slow, tantalizing circles. My breath quickens. My thighs squeeze around his hand. We moan simultaneously when he pushes two fingers inside me and fucks me slowly with his hand.

  When I reach for his pants, he nudges my hand away.

  “No,” he whispers with his mouth against my ear and his fingers buried inside me. “Tonight, I just want to fuckin’ devour you.”

  In a blink, he disappears under the blanket and quickly lowers my sweatpants. His mouth joins his hand between my thighs. His tongue laps at my throbbing clit, his lips cover me, so warm and wet.

  I turn into a quivering, wet, orgasmic, lovesick mess.