by Ren Benton
“Oh. Well. There you go.”
Eco-chic brides were a special favorite of Ivy’s. Some token gesture — such as biodegradable confetti — added a trendy touch of social conscience to the typical exuberant display of waste. Single-use dresses for the bride and bridesmaids — and, in this case, the guests. A commercial bouquet of roses soaked in preservatives, pesticides, and fertilizer, shipped via fossil-fuel furnace from the supplier. A gift registry that generated its own landfill full of boxes, polystyrene, plastic, and bubble wrap, also shipped.
But they called it green because emailed RSVPs were encouraged.
Couples who paid more than lip service to decreasing the impact of their event put on clothes already in their closets, rode bicycles to the courthouse, and skipped this whole circus.
He perched the cone point up, like a party hat, on his knee. “You just don’t love the environment like Ezra and Courtney do.”
Why did that name set off a warning bell? “If everyone loved the environment like Ezra and Courtney do, we’d be having this discussion on a garbage barge overrun with invasive plants while hurtling into the sun.”
“If only we could get out of this that easily.”
Her laugh got buried under the booming opening chords of the music they’d all been waiting for. The guests turned as one to witness the entrance of the star of the show.
Ivy would have steered her away from that dress, if for no other reason than the heavy satin ballgown was better suited to a cathedral than a beach, but she didn’t blame the consultant. Some brides refused to be diverted from their dream dress, carb-free French toast, and gallon of mimosas.
There would be hell to pay if someone didn’t shut down the wind before it disarranged the bride’s hair.
Ivy turned to face the altar. Of all the weddings, on all the islands, in all the world, she walked into Tyrannosaurus bride’s.
Griff bent his head over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
She turned her face toward his. His lips were, at most, two inches from hers, close enough to induce a prickle of awareness. Lips didn’t belong in such intimate proximity if they weren’t going to kiss.
The little pinch between his brows indicated he’d noticed her change from companionable griping to genuine discomfort. This stranger couldn’t be that attuned to her moods. People who’d known her for years believed she didn’t have moods. Maybe reading body language was part of his job. In psychiatry. Or law enforcement.
Either way, it might be a good idea to stop joking about murder. She whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”
The bride completed her walk down the aisle. The officiant made much ado about how the bride and groom melted down their grandparents’ wedding bands to make the rings they would exchange today.
Griff muttered, “How much nonrenewable energy do you suppose was wasted destroying perfectly good jewelry?”
“I’m sure there will be a clip about it in the movie.”
“You’re kidding.” He snatched the program from her lap and flipped the pages looking for proof of her joke.
Sadly, he would find none. The film took up forty minutes of the program. No mention was made of popcorn. “Shh. The vows are my favorite part.”
Particularly after the officiant stated the couple wrote their own.
She leaned her head against Griff’s shoulder to see around the videographer blocking the aisle.
The groom began his speech.
Ivy closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Griff spoke against her hair. “Too corny for you?”
The groom read the second couplet from the iPad in his hands. “I vow to treasure your aspirations—”
“For through them your heart shines,” she said in tandem.
“I vow to be your partner in every way—”
“Working with you as my equal, not my possession.”
Griff lowered his chin, trying to see from her angle. “Is your vision that sharp?”
“This is the fourth time I’ve heard these unique words written from the heart. They must be the first search result for ‘personalized wedding vows.’”
Griff’s arm settled around her, warm and heavy, shifting her into position for a better view of the unmitigated gall and giving her other ear the benefit of his murmur. “This is much more fun with a date who shares my cynicism.”
She had to agree. “It’s a shame I have to dump you when it’s over.”
“It’s a shame he’s still talking.”
Her yelp of laughter was faster than the hand she clapped over her mouth.
An elderly woman seated in front of them turned in her chair to investigate the disturbance.
Griff rubbed Ivy’s arm as if comforting a woman overcome with sentiment. “Beautiful ceremony, isn’t it?”
The woman’s nose wrinkled. “I give ’em six months.” Prediction delivered, she faced forward again.
Griff pointed at the back of her silver head. “I found my date to the next wedding.”
Ivy gripped his thigh and squeezed to silence further attempts at provoking another outburst.
“I declare this man and this woman united in matrimony. You may now kiss one another.”
The newlyweds exercised their privilege in front of an audience of friends and family and at least one total stranger by eating each other’s tonsils. A round of polite applause celebrated the end of that awkward two minutes.
Then, because the script included too many cutesie tricks to perform in any coherent order, the audience was treated to a montage of candle lighting, sand pouring, glass stomping, butterfly releasing, and broom jumping before the happy couple made their exit in a hail of habitat destruction.
The chattering guests drifted in a loose herd toward the reception site.
Griff dropped their confetti cones, still full, in a trash can located along the path. “Only twelve more hours to go.”
“Adjusting for the delayed start time, the program threatens only four more hours.”
Though it promised to feel like twelve.
“I stopped trusting the program while marking the passage of time by the spread of Ezra’s pit sweat.” He offered his hand to help her up the steps to the deck where the reception was taking place. Neither of them made any effort to disengage while they looked for their table. “Regardless, I was told I could keep you until dawn.”
What would you do with me all night?
She pressed her lips together, stifling another impulse to ruin their fun with her clumsy flirting. Telling herself she had just as much right to seduce him as anyone else and executing the seduction in real life were two entirely different matters. She lacked the confidence of the porn peddler, Bikini Girl, and the boutique clerk to win a positive response.
If she was going to embarrass herself, she’d rather postpone the awkward goodbyes until she got a few more dimples and sizzling touches out of him.
Her longevity would be impaired by today’s predawn wake-up, though. Early to rise, early to bed — such was the life of a sensible, responsible, inoffensive woman. “I’ll give you until ten, and then you’re on your own with predatory bridesmaids.”
“What would it take to make my date predatory?” His hand on her waist prevented her from stumbling into a flock of cawing bridesmaids flapping across their path. “To lend authenticity to the ruse, of course.”
Of course. Flirtation came so naturally to him, he probably had to retract half the words he uttered to women to avoid unintended entanglements. “If we’re about to sit down to the typical reception dinner, I’ll be gnawing your femur within the hour.”
He pulled out a chair for her, undaunted by the threat of cannibalism. “I have never so eagerly anticipated undercooked chicken.”
Griff tapped a roll with his butter knife. “I could strike two of these rolls together and get a fire going if you’d let me burn money.”
His cold, underseasoned prime rib was still twitching and hemorrhaging on his plate.
In lieu of cooking it over a cash bonfire, Ivy shared half of her cold, underseasoned, overcooked salmon, which the environmentally conscious couple had chosen rather than any variety of fish caught by local fishermen. “How are the potatoes?”
“Unidentifiable as such.” He pointed his fork at her. “When do we start eating each other?”
In her imagination, shortly after she’d licked him all over to determine the tenderest place to bite. “Look at it as more room for cake.”
A woman across the table from them raised her voice to be heard over the music. “Oh, Courtney went sugar-free a month ago to prepare for the wedding. She won’t ruin the day with cake.”
Now that she’d captured Griff’s attention, the woman flicked her tongue at her upper lip and winked.
Ivy had been under the impression the lip licker belonged with the man seated to her left — primarily because he had introduced her as his wife. Apparently, the five single women weren’t the only threat to Griff’s virtue.
Not that Ivy made a very effective shield. She could have told him other women would see her as an easily defeated rival, not a deterrent. She’d be swatted aside to establish rank in the female pecking order, and the victor would devour Griff in front of her as a display of dominance.
He rested his arm along the back of her chair and coiled one of her curls around his finger. “Honey, can you explain how sugar deprivation is preparation for a wedding?”
Many a bride ordered her dress too small as motivation to lose a few pounds, waited until the last minute to initiate any lifestyle changes that would result in weight loss, and then went on a crash diet that made her and everyone around her crazy — but only someone with insider knowledge would know how common that procedure was, and the duchess had nothing to do with brides and their mass nuttiness. “I have no idea, but if the end result is no cake, cupcakes, doughnuts, waffles, pie, ice cream, candy, chocolate fountain, or anything else that makes a wedding worthwhile, I’m out of here.”
He stood as she did and took her hand to arrest her flight. “You’re not a welcher.”
“The wedding I agreed to attend is over.” She stepped around him and headed for the nearest gap in the fairy lights caging the deck.
He caught up with her in two long strides. “You subsequently agreed to be mine until ten.”
She whined — just a little, probably not loud enough to be heard outside her own head. Moral fiber was a poor substitute for cake. “Next time a man invites me to be his shield, I’ll know not to agree without a written guarantee about the cake situation.”
“Cake guarantees aren’t legally binding. You can only specify a clause for the provision of supplemental cake in the event of a reception failure.”
She pressed against his arm to avoid collision with a groomsman staggering toward the dance floor. “Have you run this scam often enough to master its rules, or are you a lawyer specializing in cake fraud?”
“The legal term is torte law.”
Her squeak of helpless laughter was drowned out by the DJ’s announcement that it was Gangnam Time. She raised her voice to be heard over the hoots of the guests who had found the liquor. “Whereas this is torte-ure.”
He scowled with mock severity. “If you’re going to one-up my terrible puns, this relationship is over.”
This man had never experienced a mutually painless breakup. He inspired too many feelings to undergo civilized partings. Tears would be shed, curses shouted, tires slashed. There would, of course, be pathetic pleas not to go on his lover’s part.
“Aw, baby, no.” She clung to his arm and rolled out her lower lip. “I can change.”
“Now, that would work on me.” He peered at her with gentle accusation stitching his brows together. “Is the secret those big brown eyes, or am I just more softhearted than you are?”
Jared’s proposal made her wonder if she had a heart at all. On paper, he seemed damn near perfect — she’d compiled a bulleted list of his positive attributes as evidence. Her lack of feeling was no fault of his. Only a defect on her part could explain a multitude of positives and no negatives registering as zero on her emotional scale.
Griff volunteered his hand again to help her descend the deck’s stairs. A bougainvillea-covered trellis offered sanctuary from the noise and lights of the party. The path was wide and otherwise unoccupied, but Ivy stuck close, her breast pressed to the back of Griff’s arm, her thigh rubbing against their joined hands with every step. He voiced no objection to the unnecessary contact.
Jared liked his personal space, and Ivy gave it to him, but she liked touching and being touched. She could live without for prolonged periods of time, but could she live the rest of her life with a man who considered her physical presence so intrusive, he wore pajamas to prevent skin-to-skin contact while he slept and woke her if she snuggled against him to exile her to her own side of the bed?
Jared would never leave her, but he would never truly be there for her, either, in ways she needed.
“If you’re debating the wisdom of arming me with your seduction secrets, I promise to use the knowledge only for good.”
Griff would leave, quickly, but every moment he stayed, his presence would be felt. The impression he made would linger even in his absence, etched in memory.
Her thumb stroked the back of his finger — the one with the scarred knuckle, she thought. His big, roughened hands would surely be missed, too. “The difference is, you believe a woman would want you to stay because she couldn’t live without you.”
“And you believe what?”
“That you’d say anything to ensure I provide the promised service because you’d be inconvenienced if I opted out.”
The arm to which she was attached stopped moving, halting her with it. A hand cupping the side of her neck turned her so their bodies aligned, separated by the width of their clasped hands. She stared at his shadowed face, breathless, waiting.
Lips really didn’t belong in such intimate proximity if they weren’t going to kiss.
“Before I walked into that gift shop, I had every intention of coming to this wedding alone.” His thumb rubbed the underside of her jaw, a spot she’d never known was so sensitive. “I didn’t ask because I needed you. I asked because I wanted you. Anyone who makes you feel like no more than a convenience is an ass.”
She was the convenient babysitter, convenient come-early-stay-late employee, convenient prospective wife. People in her life thought of her as such because she consistently played the part, cultivating their need because they wouldn’t want her otherwise.
Until Griff pointed out the difference, she’d been able to pretend being useful and being wanted were the same.
She disguised the catch in her breath with a weak laugh. “You’re a quick study. That would work.”
“I’ll add it to my repertoire.” He lowered his hand, brushing her bare shoulder. Heat penetrated deep into her skin and smoldered after the contact ended.
He removed his mouth from kissing range without putting her receptivity to the test. “Maybe someday I’ll meet another woman like you and get a chance to use it.”
Perhaps the next woman like her — really like her, not pretending to be European royalty — would be more courageous. If she had the guts to seize the opportunity, Ivy didn’t begrudge her. In fact, she felt solidarity. A sensible woman needed all the support she could get to do something senseless. “For future reference, women like me can’t be reasoned with when hungry. Weaken her resistance with food to make sure those pretty words don’t go to waste.”
“Sweet food before sweet talk. Got it.” They proceeded to the end of the trellis and turned with the walkway. “Will you look at that? Food.”
The hotel’s formal restaurant glittered behind a wall of glass. Candlelight glinted off crystal and silver. The men seated within wore suits; the women sparkled with jewels.
Griff headed for the door. “I wonder if they have cake.”
Ivy dragged him to a stop with
her grip on his hand. “We’re underdressed.”
“If they deny us entry because I’m not wearing a tie, it will be the perfect opportunity to ask if they know who they’re dealing with.”
“Who are they dealing with?” Maybe he was a restaurant critic in real life.
He looked pointedly at her.
“No! Everyone knows there is no Livinia Dangereuse, Duchess of Dangereusia.” Even the books she read to her four-year-old niece stopped short of that level of unbelievability.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“A safe distance from the not-so-fine line between roleplaying and fraud.” It was fun while it lasted, but now — before she had a heart attack — seemed like a good time to confess being tediously responsible.
He squeezed her hand and let her go. “You wait here. I’ll do all the talking.”
Ivy waited by the door while he approached the host. From her position, she would see the police coming and could take cover behind a broad-leafed potted plant that coordinated with the print of her dress.
The host left his station, and Griff gave her a thumbs up.
She sidled toward the camouflage the plant offered. While the police apprehended him, she could sneak out the exit. If she burned this dress and shaved her head, witnesses would be unable to identify her as the badly dressed co-conspirator with clown hair.
At last, she’d found an advantage to looking ordinary. All she had to do to exploit her gift for being nondescript was become a criminal.
She was so focused on detecting the approach of the law, a touch on her elbow made her jump — right into the plant, which rustled at a volume magnified beyond rational explanation in the hushed interior environment.
Her attempt to manually silence the leaves only exacerbated their agitation. She clasped her hands against her stomach and backed away.
A hard wall of chest blocked her retreat. Above her head, a voice rich with amusement said, “I got us takeout.”
Griff opened the door and gestured her through using the plate in his hand.
She didn’t get a good look at what was on the plate in passing, other than stripes she hoped were various shades of chocolate. “What kind of takeout comes on china?”