The Wedding Band

by Cara Connelly

Words failed her.

  But he was suddenly loquacious. “I love you, but I’m having a hard time trusting you. Part of that’s on me. I’ve got trust issues, and I’m working on them.”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is on me too. Which is why I’m standing here making a fool of myself. But baby, you gotta meet me in the middle.”

  The middle? Where was the middle? The line kept moving.

  He waited.

  She gazed up at him, helplessly. “What do you want me to say?”

  He smiled again, gorgeously. “Say you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  He turned, spreading his arms to the cameras. “Did you get that?” he called. “I love her. She loves me. We’re getting married.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “THAT GOT ’EM moving,” Christy said. “But talk about a whopper.”

  Kota watched the reporters scramble to their trucks to break the story. Then he turned to Christy. Her cheeks were pink. A half smile curved her luscious lips.

  “It wasn’t a whopper,” he said. “I was serious.” He might’ve been shooting from the hip when he threw it out to the reporters, but it felt absolutely right.

  Her brows went up. “I don’t remember a proposal.”

  “Okay. Let’s get married.”

  “No.”

  His face fell. “Why not?”

  Her expression said he was nuts. “We’ve known each other for three weeks. For most of that time, you hated me. And for the last twenty-­four hours, I hated you.” She shoved his chest. “Go home, Kota. We’ll call it a draw and get on with our lives.”

  “No.” He wouldn’t let her push him away. Something important was happening here. They had to see it through.

  But not in front of the press.

  Reaching around her, he opened the door and hustled her inside. Thankfully, the kitchen lights were down low. It would be easier to say what he needed to say if Christy couldn’t read the shame in his eyes.

  “Listen,” he said before she could lay into him for barging into her house, “I’ve never been in a relationship before. I thought it wasn’t in the cards for me.”

  That startled her. “Why not?”

  He spread his arms. “Look at me. I’m a brick shithouse. I can lift and carry and fuck all night. I’m built for physical stuff. But I’m not built for love.”

  “That,” she declared, “is the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. You’re the most loving person I know. The way you love your parents, your brother, Em. It’s staggering. And the animals, my God, the animals.” She poked his arm with one finger. “Your heart’s bigger than your biceps. And that’s saying something.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. I can dole it out. Hell, I can’t help myself there. But I do stupid shit, and ­people get hurt. Look what I did to Charlie.”

  She waved that away.

  “There’s more,” he said. “Something I haven’t told you.” Something he hadn’t told anybody. “It’s about my parents. My birth parents.” He took a deep breath, made himself say it. “I told my mother where the money was.”

  The truth burned his throat like a flame. He’d never said it out loud, his darkest secret, his deepest shame. “She was tearing her hair out, scratching the skin off her arms. So I told her where Dad hid it. Because I loved her, and she was suffering, and I hated seeing her like that.”

  He swallowed, his mouth dry as ashes. “I made a snap decision without thinking it through. And she ended up gone, and my Dad ended up dead.”

  “Oh, Kota.” Christy touched his cheek with her fingertips. “You were a little kid. You saw your mother in pain. You wanted to stop it.” Her fingers were cool on his fevered skin. “Think about it. What if Tana had been the one to tell her? Would you blame him? Would you want him to blame himself?”

  “Of course not. But it wasn’t Tana. It was me.” How could she not understand?

  “And Charlie,” he said, the words sticking in his throat. “You can blow it off, but that was my fault too. I wasn’t a kid. I was twenty-­five, old enough to know better. But I thought I was smarter than everybody else. And he died because of my stupid ego.”

  For a long moment, Christy looked into his eyes.

  Then she took a step back, cocked her head to the side. “You know, you’re right,” she said. “You should’ve seen that coming. You should’ve known that if you refused to deny you were gay, Charlie would end up dead in his swimming pool.”

  She shrugged like it was a no-­brainer. “It was inevitable. Because everything’s all about you. It’s Kota’s world, and we’re all just living in it. The reporters had no free will. Neither did Charlie. They were just action figures, while you”—­she jabbed his chest—­“make the whole fucking world go round.”

  He held up his hands. “I hear what you’re saying, but look what I did to you. I went off half cocked, and you almost got nailed by a Suburban. You could be dead right now.”

  It stole his breath. His palms went clammy.

  She laid a hand on his chest. “You were an ass, Kota. But you didn’t push me out in front of that Suburban. If I got nailed, it would’ve been my own fault. I could’ve asked a cop to stop traffic while I picked up my things. But being just as pigheaded as you, I blundered out into the street without engaging my brain.”

  She shook her head. “You’re a good man, Kota. You just need to accept that you can’t control everyone else. Just like you can’t control the weather, or the stock market, or a virus that could turn us all into zombies. Because life isn’t a movie. You can’t squint us into submission, or shoot everybody who crosses you, or have sex with every woman you meet.”

  She paused. “Well, maybe that last one.”

  He laughed. So did she, and it felt good, so good, to laugh together again.

  Gazing into her warm caramel eyes, he could believe that anything was possible. That he could love her without killing her. That they had a chance at happiness.

  His chest swelled, and he pressed her hand to it, flattening her palm so she’d feel his heart beating.

  “Christy Gray, I’ve been waiting all my life for you.”

  CHRIS’S HEART FLUTTERED. Her knees went weak.

  But she stiffened her spine and took another step back, reclaiming her hand, leaning her hip on the counter. “There’s more to a relationship,” she said, “than declaring our love and riding off into the sunset on Sugar. We’re fundamentally different ­people.”

  He spread his palms. “Sweetheart, that’s a good thing. Why would I want to hook up with another asshole like me?”

  “Good point. But assuming for the sake of argument that I’d jump at the chance, you’d have to dial down your control freak.”

  “Sure, no problem.” He did his most disarming smile.

  She gave him a pitying look. “Listen, I get it. You had a crappy childhood where nothing was in your control. So it’s only natural that as an adult you’d react by trying to control everything.”

  “You sound like Em.”

  “You’re not that complicated. The problem is, you like order and predictability, and I’m chaos. In the last three weeks, I snuck into a celebrity wedding, fell in love on a desert island, got kicked off the island by the men in black and ditched on the sidewalk by the man I love.

  “If that wasn’t enough, I quit my job, got sued by a senator, shit on by my roommate, chased by TMZ, lampooned on late-­night TV, and now my house is surrounded by paparazzi.”

  He shrugged. “So things are a little crazy right now. They’ll settle down.”

  “Maybe someday. But my life’s up in the air. I’m working on sorting it out, but it’s a process.”

  “I can help.” He glanced at her laptop, open on the coffee table. “What’re you writing?”

  “A screenplay.” Her face f
lushed hot. It was so clichéd. Everyone in L.A. was writing a screenplay.

  She brazened it out. “It’s about a girl I met in a refugee camp. How I imagine—­well, how I hope—­her life turned out.”

  “Sounds original. You’ll probably want to go indie with that. I know some ­people—­”

  She growled low in her throat.

  He shrugged. “Fine, do it the hard way. But if you change your mind—­”

  “Kota, you have to let ­people sink or swim on their own. You’re not responsible for what the rest of us do.” She threw up her hands. “Shit happens. I could get into a car accident on the way to see you. Or get food poisoning when we eat out somewhere.”

  He paled. “How about you move in with me? Then you won’t have to go anywhere. And I’ll cook for you every night. No restaurants.”

  She let out a laugh, because he was funny, and more than half serious.

  He closed the distance between them, brought one hand up to cup her face. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, the lightest caress. “I know what you’re saying, sweetheart. Everything doesn’t revolve around me. And I’m learning. I’m letting Tana fend for himself while I go off to school. That’s progress, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a start.” She rested her hands on his waist. His heat soaked through his shirt, warming her skin. Warming her heart.

  He lifted her chin and kissed her, a light brush of his lips. Then he wrapped his arms around her, gently, like she might take flight if he moved too suddenly.

  “You snuck into more than a wedding, darlin’. You snuck into my heart.”

  THERE WAS ONLY one way to carry Christy up the corkscrew staircase—­over his shoulder.

  “You know I’m not crazy about this form of transport, don’t you?” Her voice vibrated with every step.

  “All the more reason to move in with me. My bedroom’s on the first floor.”

  “It’s too soon.”

  He opened his mouth to override her objections, to point out the many advantages of his estate, number one being that it was paparazzi-­proof . . .

  Then he clammed up without a word. She was right; he was a controlling son of a bitch. Sure, he only wanted the best for everyone, but if he’d learned one thing this October, it was that ­people had their own ideas about how to live their lives.

  Which meant he had to let Christy decide for herself when to move in with him. Not that he wouldn’t do everything he could think of to tempt her. But he could be reasonable.

  Hell, he’d even let her set their wedding date.

  She pinched his butt. “Put me down.”

  He stood her on her feet beside the bed. Eyed her in the moonlight streaking through the windows.

  “Nice dress,” he said. “Take it off.”

  She lifted it over her head.

  “Nice shirt.” She tapped his chest with one finger. “Take it off.”

  He ditched it.

  “Nice bra.” He flicked it open. Her tits spilled into his hands.

  He thumbed the nipples, smiled at her sharp sip of air. “I thought they didn’t do much for you.”

  “That was before they met you.” She covered his hands with hers, feeling herself up with his palms.

  Hot. Very hot.

  His Levi’s shrank two sizes too small.

  She dropped her hands to her panties, shimmied them off, and pushed them into his pocket. “A souvenir.” Her voice had gone husky. “Meanwhile, your pants.” She unbuttoned the button, tugged on the zipper.

  He did the rest, then pulled her down on the bed, caging her under him, gazing into her face. There were stars in her eyes, or reflected in her eyes. Either way, she sparkled.

  “I love you,” she said, and he breathed it in. It swirled through his chest like sweet smoke, making him high.

  He breathed it back to her, “I love you,” and she drew it in, closing her eyes, smiling softly.

  His arms circled her head where it lay on the pillow. She seemed small beneath him, but the furthest thing from weak. With one fingertip, she could move his two hundred pounds of muscle and bone. He’d be helpless to resist her.

  Talk about control.

  He slid a knee between hers, spreading her legs. And she put that fingertip to work, pushing him off, rolling him onto his back. Then she climbed aboard, taking him inside, all the way in, palms on his chest, skin gleaming in the starlight.

  It was her ride, her rodeo, and she set the pace, slow and easy, while his fists bunched the sheets.

  She smiled, locking onto his eyes. “You’re dying to flip me, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. Sweat beaded his chest.

  “You want to hold me down and hammer like Thor.”

  Sweat slid off his temple.

  She rolled her hips, testing his mettle. Her head fell back, the column of her throat pale in the moonlight. He must be part vampire, because he thirsted to bite it.

  Then—­thank you God—­she picked up the pace. Faster, and faster till sweat glistened between her breasts.

  He abandoned the sheets and gripped her hips, urging her on, driving her higher. Everything in him screamed to roll her, pin her down, take her harder, claim her fully.

  But he held the line, even as she strained, as she moaned.

  Then her head dropped forward, a cascade of mink sweeping his chest, sticking to her skin. His hands slid up her sides to palm her breasts, slippery and full.

  “Babe,” he ground out through his teeth. “I’m dying here.” Drawn up tight and ready to explode.

  “Then come.” She shook back her hair. Her neck stood out in cords. “Come with me.”

  And she ignited, pure fire, sucking him into the blaze until they burned as one, searing through all that divided them, clear through their skin to sheer flame.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  CHRIS SLID HER palm along the glossy rail of Adam LeCroix’s seventy-­five-­foot cruising yacht. “How come you don’t have one of these?”

  “You want one?” Kota propped his elbows on the rail and smiled gorgeously. “Consider it your wedding present.”

  “Speaking of”—­air quotes—­“our wedding. You all but told everyone the invitations are in the mail.”

  He shrugged. “Love was in the air.”

  She had to agree. Adam and Maddie’s sunset wedding was unforgettable; an intimate ceremony with a handful of guests, a candlelight dinner on deck, and dancing under twinkle lights to a talented trio.

  Now Chris was alone with Kota under the stars. The trio had departed for shore and the other guests had retired, except for Adam and Maddie, still waltzing to their own tune at the far end of the deck. The yacht rocked gently on the placid sea. The lights of Portofino twinkled in the distance, reflected in Kota’s eyes.

  It couldn’t have been more romantic.

  But still. “I haven’t said I’d marry you.”

  “Sweetheart, we both know it’s just a matter of time.”

  He was right, of course. For a month he’d been wearing her down. Not pressuring her—­he’d shown surprising restraint. But wooing her with conversation, good food, and mind-­blowing sex.

  In her head, she’d already set the date. But it wouldn’t do to give in too easily.

  “You’re a cocky bastard,” she said. “Lucky for you, pasta puts me in a forgiving mood.”

  “Pasta does lots of good things to you.” He gave her ass a squeeze.

  She swung it out of reach. “They’re not melons, you know.”

  “Believe me, fruit’s the farthest thing from my mind.” He pulled her into his arms, rubbed his nose in her hair. “Mmm, roses. I used to be partial to peaches, but you made a rose man out of me.”

  A breeze riffled across the water, making her shiver. He opened his jacket and wrapped it around her. She snuggled in, his heat warming h
er through his shirt.

  Maddie appeared beside them, her satin gown shimmering. “Hey, you two. We’re hitting the sack. Christy, I want to thank you again. It was beautiful.”

  Chris smiled. “It’s a privilege to sing at a wedding. Especially for friends.”

  Adam came up behind Maddie, set his hands on her shoulders. His black tux was immaculate . . . except for the red lipstick on his white collar.

  “It was magical,” he said to Chris. “We’ll never forget it.” To Kota, “If you can get away from the set again, we’ll be cruising for three weeks. Fly into any airport in Greece, and we’ll get you both out to the ship.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Kota said. “By the way, nice vows.”

  Adam laughed. “I couldn’t have been more surprised when Maddie proposed we write our own. She’s not known for sentiment.”

  Maddie sniffed. “It’s not sentiment. The lawyer in me wanted the terms on the table.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Consider me forewarned that love, honor, and cherish will go out the window in a zombie apocalypse.”

  Leaving Chris and Kota at the rail, they went off to do what newlyweds do.

  Kota nuzzled her again. “It was nice of you to sing for them.”

  “Like I said, it was a privilege. I felt the same about Tana’s wedding, even with all the baggage.” She tipped her head up and propped her chin on his chest. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but once I met you backstage, I wasn’t singing for anybody else. I was singing for you.”

  For a long moment he gazed down at her from eyes midnight blue.

  Then, “I knew it,” he blurted, busting out in a grin. “I knew you were singing for me. I looked around at all those other suckers who were thinking the same thing, but I knew it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I was right, I shouldn’t have told you.”

  He let out a big laugh and lifted her feet off the deck in a hug.

  She jabbed his ribs. “Put me down. I’m going to bed.”

  “Damn right you are.” He swung her into his arms and headed for their stateroom. “If we’re lucky, we’ll hear the newlyweds goin’ at it next door. I know how that turns you on.”