My (Mostly) Fake Wedding
Penelope Bloom
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Contents
1. Belle
2. Chris
3. Belle
4. Chris
5. Belle
6. Belle
7. Chris
8. Belle
9. Chris
10. Belle
11. Chris
12. Belle
13. Chris
14. Chris
15. Belle
16. Chris
17. Belle
18. Chris
19. Belle
20. Chris
21. Belle
22. Chris
23. Belle
24. Chris
25. Belle
26. Chris
27. Belle
28. Chris
29. Belle
30. Chris
31. Belle
32. Chris
33. Belle
34. Chris
35. Belle
36. Chris
37. Damon
38. Belle
39. Belle
Epilogue - Chris
Epilogue - Belle
1
Belle
In life, you can’t always run from your problems. But in some rare cases, you can pack your bags and fly a few hundred miles away from them.
I tucked my carry-on a little tighter in my lap and tried to breathe normally. Just breathe, Belle.
At a wedding venue not far away, I knew there was a Chernobyl-scale Bridezilla meltdown still in progress. I also knew the wedding ceremony was being held at a beautiful little villa in the hills of Texas. I knew the color scheme was a tasteful blend of violets and ivory and that the entire ceremony had put the bride’s parents out roughly three hundred thousand dollars.
I knew all this because I was the one who planned the wedding.
Unfortunately, I was also the one who ruined it.
I caught myself not breathing again, and forced a slow, deep intake of air through my nose. I wondered if this was how it all ended. My body was going to make an executive decision to off me. The diagnosis was shame and embarrassment. The case was terminal, and the body’s prescription was to make me forget how to breathe.
I heard my phone buzz from my purse for the hundredth time in the last hour. Nope. Not answering that. It felt like Mike Tyson himself was trying to land a knockout punch on me with every missed call and every wandering thought that brought me back to a few hours ago. Was I going to do the brave thing? Take one right on the chin? No, of course not. I was going to duck, dodge, and run as fast as I could with my tail between my legs.
I was practically first in line when the call came to board the plane, and I sank into my first class seat like it was a bomb shelter—because honestly, nothing in the world sounded quite as nice right then as getting a mile above my problems and being jettisoned away.
His face made an unwelcome visit in my brain. Lance Sunderland. My childhood crush. The guy who had unknowingly friend-zoned me while he fell head over heels for another woman. The guy who didn’t realize it ripped my heart out when he asked me to plan his wedding, even though he was excited because he knew it was a big opportunity for my business.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the seat. Don’t do it, Belle. Think about something else.
I had a view of the airport from my window seat. I looked to my left, idly watching the small figures of people walking past the endless windows.
That was when one figure in particular caught my attention. Among the sea of shuffling, bent silhouettes, one stood out. He was tall, upright, and taking one long-legged stride after another while a small swarm half-jogged behind him.
I sat up straighter, squinting for a better view. For a confused second, I thought I saw lightning flash, but then realized people were taking pictures.
The pursued man passed out of my view just in front of the terminal where I’d boarded.
Must’ve been a celebrity, I thought. I idly wondered who it could be, and if I was going to get a nosy chance to peek at them if they boarded my plane. I’d never been the type to buy into celebrity worship, but I wasn’t above gawking if one wanted to pass by within arm’s reach. I was human, after all.
I didn’t have to wonder for long, because a mountain of a man shouldering a black backpack was walking down the aisle of first class. He had on a black baseball cap and sunglasses in that stereotypical get-up celebrities thought made them inconspicuous. Even with most of his features hidden, he was clearly drop-dead gorgeous.
He wore a few days of stubble on his chin, which was tanned and sharp. He had a muscular neck, which I decided in a split second was strangely attractive. Then again, it could’ve been the fact that his entire body was composed of lean, defined muscles stacked on top of more lean, defined muscles.
I was still totally not celebrity worshipping—because yeah, whoever this guy was, he was definitely someone famous—when he stopped right beside my seat. He reached up to shove his backpack in the compartment above me.
My eyes wandered down to where his shirt drifted up from his jeans to reveal a tantalizing little sliver of his stomach.
Boom. Apparently running away from your problems was the watered-down version of whatever medicine I needed. The direct, intravenous injectable version was dressed incognito and dripping with sex appeal about three feet from my face.
He sat down on the aisle seat directly beside me.
In some part of my brain, I realized the pilot was speaking over the intercom and there were sounds happening. Stewardesses explaining what to do in the event of a crash.
Too late. We’re already going down. Down, down, down… The cause of our unfortunate demise is about six foot, four inches, and practically carved out of granite with dirty blond, wild hair that is trying to escape his hat.
I stared at the headrest of the seat in front of me like I was making sure it wasn’t about to come alive. I had a tingling suspicion that I recognized the man sitting beside me. I’d seen him somewhere but couldn’t quite place it.
Little by little, a scent was creeping from him toward me, like some kind of pheromonal assault on my senses. My head was filled with images of men wearing flannel and doing manly things, like unscrewing light bulbs and fixing sinks. If he wanted his crack to stick out while he checked out my plumbing, I wouldn’t have even complained. He smelled real, as stupid as that sounded, even in my own head. He wasn’t wearing some fancy, “I’m a rich bastard” cologne. He didn’t smell like gold nuggets and diamond dust. He just smelled like a man, and my over-ambitious self apparently took that as some kind of vague sign that he was attainable.
I felt the systems inside me all chug to life. My stomach got warm and fuzzy. My skin tingled. I was definitely wet. Yes. I was wet because an attractive guy had sat down next to me. If there was any better sign that I’d fallen on desperate, sad times, I wasn’t sure I’d ever find it.
“May I?” he asked.
The sound of his rich voice was like a gunshot waking me from the deepest sleep of my life. My whole body twitched, and before I could figure out what he was talking about, I said, “yes,” in an embarrassingly dreamy voice.
The man hadn’t seemed to notice me, but that got him to do a slight double take as he reached to plug his headphones into the armrest between us. He paused, looking at me, then the corner of his mouth pulled up.
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry.
It’s just a man, Belle. Stop acting so starstruck. You don’t even know who he is. Besides… I stuck my han
d in one of the pockets of my dress—yes, it had pockets, and they were deep enough to hold real things, not just a couple coins. There was a crumpled-up sticky note there. I’d written it right after the blow up with Lance and the wedding. I knew what it said without pulling it out to remind myself.
No more men. No dating. No. Just no.
Start working out (I’d crossed this one out a few seconds later, because I knew that wasn’t going to happen.)
Go on a diet. (This one was crossed out more vigorously than the last. I loved food too much. Sorry, not sorry.)
Never fall for someone again. It makes you stupid. Love is for stupid people. You are not a stupid people. Stupid person? Point is, no more love.
I clutched the note tight in my palm. No. I wasn’t about to fall in love with the total stranger sitting beside me, even if he was mouthwatering. But I needed to remember to not go down that fantasy lane in my head. This was a test. That’s what he was. Like some cosmic sign dropped from the heavens to give me a chance to show I could handle this.
I could change. I just needed to survive this flight without doing something stupid or trying to shove my boobs in the celebrity stranger’s face in some desperate attempt to join the mile-high club.
I just had to keep it in my pants for one measly flight. I could do that. Probably.
2
Chris
When I got back to New York tonight, I was going to be getting engaged, and I hadn’t even had a bachelor party. Of course, the engagement was a load of bullshit, but my brother slash agent hadn’t minced words. My cock was supposed to respect this fake engagement as if it was real.
I shifted in my seat. That meant in a few hours, I was going to be unwillingly celibate for the duration of this little stunt.
My eyes wandered down to the smooth pair of tanned legs that were in the window seat beside me. The woman had just shimmied a little until her leg was against my knee, and I wondered if she’d done it intentionally. She hadn’t squealed, demanded a selfie, or tried to get me to sign her cleavage, so she was already a step up on most women in my book.
We’d taken off a few seconds ago, and she hadn’t so much as spoken. When I asked if I could plug my cord in, the wide-eyed, open mouthed look she’d given me was sign enough that she knew who I was. But apparently, she was the stunned into silence around celebrities’ type.
The game of legsie was interesting. Too scared to speak to me but not too scared to try to come on to me?
I decided my flight wasn’t going to be as boring as I’d feared.
“Your leg is touching mine,” I said.
The woman jumped like I’d just administered an electric shock from my knee. “I’m s-sorry,” she whispered. She was motionless for a second, then she actually cupped her hand over her eyes and bowed her head.
I smirked. “I didn’t ask you to stop.”
Another long pause.
She slowly pulled her hand away, then turned to look at me with clear shock. I’d never been a picky man when it came to beautiful women. But ever since a string of hyper attractive girlfriends had proven to be nothing but gold diggers, clout chasers, and users, I’d found myself drawn increasingly to normal. I had nothing against beauty, of course, and if a beautiful woman with the right personality came my way, I’d be happy to see where things went.
It was more that I was learning the warning signs. The type. And you could bet your ass there was a type in New York City. The first warning flag was the Instagram influencer type. I always found myself posing for so many pictures that I felt like I should start charging an advertising fee. Then there were celebrities looking for a PR boost. Nobodies looking for a boost to their bank accounts. The list was endless, and the common denominator was men in my position were a means to an end, and I’d become cautious about throwing myself into yet another situation to be used.
For some reason, this particular woman didn’t strike me as any of the above. She looked wounded. Like someone who, on a good day, would’ve probably told me to go fuck myself. Except it wasn’t a good day. There were irritated patches of pink under her light brown eyes. Her makeup had been mostly rubbed away, as far as I could tell, and her blonde hair was in a messy state between ponytail and a bison’s afro. Honestly, I found the whole package endearing.
Too bad I was about to be off the market.
“I’m sorry,” She finally said again. She turned her head and stared toward the window, clearly hoping I’d forget she existed.
“I’m Chris Rose, by the way.”
Without looking, she nodded. “I thought I recognized you from somewhere.”
I looked down at her legs, which she had moved several inches from mine. I had a quick internal debate, then decided, what the hell? I moved my knee over and bumped it against her leg.
She went stiff. She turned her head just slightly toward me, enough for me to see she was wearing the hint of a smile. “I’m Belle. And your leg is touching mine.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s because I’m about to have to swear off women for the foreseeable future. About to,” I added again, wondering if she’d pick up my meaning.
She finally faced me, but I noticed she was careful not to peel her leg away from mine. It was the conversation beneath the conversation—the unspoken safe word. “Swear off women? What, are you going to get ordained as a priest or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes, but apparently wasn’t the nosy type, because she didn’t press for details. Belle gave a little shrug. “I swore off men a couple hours ago.”
“Sounds like I caught you just a little too late. Swearing your oaths as a nun or something?”
“Or something,” she said with a crooked little smile. Belle took a shaky breath, then dug in her dress for something. She looked up at me sheepishly. “It has pockets,” she explained as she pulled a crumpled, neon pink sticky note free.
She turned her body to the side so I couldn’t see what she was doing, scribbled something with a pen, and then put it back in her pocket.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I made an amendment. Once I land in New York. I’m officially swearing off men.”
I’d had my fair share of spontaneous connections with women before. But I’d never met someone with quite the odd mixture of shyness and bravery Belle seemed to have. Truth was, it had me hard as a rock and wishing we were somewhere other than an airplane. I would’ve loved to have her to myself for a night. To lay her out on a king-sized bed and watch her sink into a plush pile of pillows.
I took Belle’s hand and pulled her through the aisle toward the bathroom.
A middle-aged stewardess had been loading the concession cart beside the bathroom. She whirled to face us, face contorting into a frown.
“Sir, you can’t—” the stewardess started. “Oh. You’re—”
I knew what she was about to say but cut her off. “This is my wife. She’s pregnant. I know she doesn’t look it, but she gets extreme morning sickness. I’ve got to help her. Unless you’d rather she barf all over first class, that is.”
“Wait, you’re married?” The stewardess asked, clearly baffled.
“Do you want a signed autobiography, or can we go?”
Belle leaned on my arm. She put the back of her hand to her forehead. “Should I throw up on her shirt or her shoes, honey?”
The stewardess was still stammering to come up with a response when we moved past her for the bathrooms.
I shoved Belle inside the small room. She giggled, and I yanked the door shut behind us.
Belle put her palms on the wall behind her, looking up at me until I could see the whites below her eyes. I was reminded that she was running from something, which gave me a slight pang of guilt for doing this with her. She was doing this because she needed an escape, and I wasn’t sure if that made me the bad guy, or if it meant I should thank my luck and enjoy the fuck, as they say. Actually, I wasn’t sure anyone said that
.
“Do you do this often?” she asked.
“Take off your dress… with the pockets.”
She looked like she wanted to press me for an answer, but she lowered her eyes and slid one shoulder free from the beige dress she wore, revealing a white bra strap.
I enjoyed watching her shimmy out of her clothes until she was standing a few inches from me in a white bra and panties. She wasn’t the kind of woman to spend her life in the gym or making sure she didn’t put too much dressing on her salad, and I found that only made me like her more. I liked that she was normal. Normal. It felt like coming up from the water to catch a quick breath, except I knew once this was over, I’d be plunged back into that world whether I liked it or not.
She crossed an arm over her stomach, but I took her by the elbow and pushed it away, looking down at her. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
“Just to clarify,” she said. “We’re going to… I mean, do you have a condom?”
I had one tucked in the back of my phone case. I pulled it out and showed it to her. “To clarify?” I asked, idly running my hand across the smooth skin of her shoulder and sliding it toward the softness of her cleavage. “What else would I bring you in here for?”
“Some guys have weird fetishes. What if you wanted to watch me pee?”
I laughed. “Yeah. that’s not my thing. I brought you in here to fuck your brains out before I’m off the market.”
My (Mostly) Fake Wedding Page 1