This isn’t what a wedding should be like.
Lori held her arm, face concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” She shook free of her friend’s comforting touch and stood straighter. “Of course I’m fine.”
Lori snorted. “It’s almost my turn to head down the aisle. I’m going to have to leave you. Are you ready for this?”
She could hear the unspoken additions to that question. Was she ready to walk down the aisle? Yes, white dress and hair done—good to go. Was she ready to face the crowd of people staring, waiting to see the Penthouse Prince take a bride? Sure, whatever. They were all strangers.
Was she ready to swear to love and cherish Camden, in sickness and in health, as long as they both shall live? Sure. What was one more lie, at this point?
He didn’t love her. But he’d shown her he was loyal and would keep her safe. Was it selfish for her to want more?
“Yeah,” she answered. She hadn’t expected her voice to waver.
Lori sighed, turned, and—bouquet in hand—began her march down the aisle.
Kaycee wasn’t there. Her mother and father weren’t there. Lori was the closest thing to someone there for her, and she wasn’t even really there for Jeanie, not that day. She had been hired by Camden, same as Jeanie.
The wedding march started, and she clutched her own flowers tightly before beginning her walk. Keeping her gaze down, so as not to take in the hundreds of eyes watching to see if she faltered, she put one foot in front of another.
The music boomed, too loud. She allowed herself to daydream, imagined her perfect wedding day. The one the little girl in her had planned so long ago, with her father by her side and friends and family filling the pews. Her dress would be simple, not beaded and heavy like the one they’d done their best to repair before she headed to the ballroom.
Maybe a beach instead of a church, with the sun setting and the waves crashing as her bridal march. Her groom?
Well, Camden’s face superimposed the image of her perfect groom, and she figured, since she was fantasizing anyway, his face would have that sleepy, tired sweetness that so tripped her trigger, even if it was just another mask.
She came to the end of the aisle and looked up, but she couldn’t bear to meet his gaze and see the mogul mask. Better to stay in the imaginary wedding, where he’d smile at her before taking her hand in his.
Her father—he’d look so tall and brave, wearing his dress blues. The minister would ask, “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” And her father’s voice would break, just a little, when he answered, “I do.”
She kept her eyes on Camden’s chest and heard him speak softly instead of the ghost of her father, repeating the words of the man doing the ceremony. “I, Camden James, take you, Jeanie Long, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health until death us do part.”
His voice didn’t quaver, sounding so sure as he swore promises to her he had no intention of keeping. The complete surety in his tone finally tricked her into tracking her gaze up, to consider his face.
Just like in her imagination, his expression held tenderness. Then again, of course it would. He was acting. The man was a master liar.
But at least with what mattered, he’d been completely honest with her. He hadn’t made any false declarations of love. He’d told her upfront what he could offer and why he wanted her.
The ceremony continued, and then it was her turn. She couldn’t look away, not once he’d captured her with his cobalt gaze, and she tried to inflect the same confidence he’d displayed into her own tone.
Her voice only quavered a little while she vowed, “I, Jeanie Long, take you, Camden James, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health until death us do part.”
More words, but she didn’t hear them, not past the buzzing in her ears.
His smile took her breath away, for just a second so open and trusting that she sailed away on that twist of his sarcastic lips.
And then they must have said he could kiss her, because he swept her into his familiar embrace and took her lips.
It was done. She was his wife.
Applause broke out, and she stayed in his arms and didn’t look around. There was no one here for her, besides him, so they didn’t matter. Perhaps the faked wedding was the best she could hope for, all things considered. Maybe she’d always wanted the fairytale, believed in it deep down, past logic and cynicism, but she’d seen enough of the world to know not everyone got what they wanted, so maybe this was it for her. In this moment—maybe it would all work out. Maybe the illusion could be real enough to become reality.
Chairs were cleared and music piped over the speakers. She recognized Marry Me, locked in the arms of her prince, and allowed him to glide them across the dance floor.
She’d just keep playing pretend for now.
But then she thought of Kaycee. Her child in every way that mattered. What would this mean for her? What would she think if she knew Jeanie had married for anything less than love?
Kaycee deserved more than money and a pretend family. How could she hope for Kaycee to expect more from a man or herself if the only model she grew up around was their pretended wedlock?
Jeanie hoped she hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of her life.
…
“We’re leaving?”
He paused, surprised at the sound of shock in her voice. He’d waited until they got back upstairs, the darkness of the apartment seeming exceptionally quiet compared to the noise downstairs, to tell her.
He’d expected surprise—sweeping her off on any kind of honeymoon should have elicited some startled smiles or something—but the slightly horrified look on her face wasn’t what he’d imagined when he’d played this out in his head. “Yes, we’re headed off on our honeymoon.”
She screeched to a halt and tugged her hand free. “I am not, like, going off with you.”
“We just got married. You’re my wife. The tradition is—” She smacked his hand away when he reached for her. “Jeanie—”
“Don’t start talking about traditions now. The proper way to do a wedding is the man proposes, baring his heart, on one knee. You never proposed, you contracted me.”
“But—”
“Nothing about this wedding has been traditional. I sure hope you don’t think I’m just going to roll over on my back like a sea turtle washed onto the beach backwards and let you have your, your—” She flailed for words before stabbing him in the chest with her finger. “Your way with me!”
“Did you really just say that? Because it’s sort of archaic.”
“You know what I mean!”
“I’m not demanding sex, just so we clear that misconception up, although I think we both realized earlier we could enjoy a physical relationship as well as a business one.” He wasn’t opposed to sex, and being this close to her, yeah, he desired her…a lot. Like more than any other woman he’d ever met. But he wasn’t taking her on a honeymoon to force her into it.
If she rolled over and demanded it, sea turtle or not, he’d oblige, but…
“Did you really think a honeymoon was a good idea?” She looked annoyed, not thrilled by the prospect as he’d intended.
He tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. He’d thought he made his position evident, that he’d told her he didn’t plan to end their marriage. “We kind of have to go anyway, you know. It will make the wedding look more believable if we—”
“Oh.” She gnawed her lip and stared at the floor. “You should have mentioned that.”
He sighed. It wasn’t just for the illusion, but he couldn’t exactly tell her that. He’d wanted to be alone with her, to have time with her. Time to explore their feelings for one ano
ther without having to pretend for an audience.
“Besides, I hadn’t actually planned for us to get divorced. I told you, it’s the flawless marriage. One without the pitfalls and traps that usually breaks people up. As a business arrangement—”
She’d just headed away from him, probably to go pack, when he spoke, but she again slammed to a halt. Whatever he’d planned to say died in his throat as she turned to face him. “Forever? You planned on us staying married? Indefinitely?”
“Well, yes. I’m not planning to divorce you, if that’s what you’re asking. You’re my wife. If you wanted out, I guess…”
“You guess what?”
He couldn’t force himself to say he’d have Lowe look into it, not when he didn’t really want her to leave. “Look, I’ve explained that I don’t believe in love, but I care about you and Kaycee. I want to see you both happy and safe. You probably don’t get this, but I don’t want my marriage to be like my parents’ and just about everyone else’s I know—betrothed one day, and then, because someone didn’t meet some unrealistic expectations, everything falls apart.”
Part of him wished he could be the kind of man Jeanie wanted, silly enough to believe in pipe dreams like love, so that he could give her the promises of devotion she wanted. If he could, it would be a hundred times easier to convince her she loved him, ensuring she’d stick around.
“I don’t want everything to fall apart, either,” she said.”
He searched her face, eager to see if that meant he had her loyalty. “I would like us to share as happy of a marriage as we can. If I have my way, we’ll stand by each other forever.”
Her green eyes blazed at him, a sheen of tears adding depth to their already fathomless beauty. Like looking at the fields of Ireland right after the rain, the brilliance of the color humbled him.
“Forever?”
“Well, yes.”
She blinked, and tears slipped out. Something flickered in her eyes—for one moment it seemed like hope, the next hesitation—and then she said, “I’ll pack.”
She didn’t say anything more, just left him. He leaned back against the wall, suddenly tired. He’d said he wanted this forever, and she’d seemed pleased, but he’d seen a glimpse of something else in her expression.
Was this all an act for her? Would she leave as soon as she got what she wanted? Was she just waiting for him to find the loophole?
He knew women only cared about security and money if they weren’t telling the pretty lies people were programmed to tell. Lucky for him, he had money and security to offer her. Surely it, and he, would be enough. Enough that she wasn’t lying about her loyalty to him. But what if he wasn’t?
What if she wanted the fairy tale of love enough to leave him for someone who would tell her the words she wanted to hear?
He’d basically tricked her into marriage. The possibility of a future, of forever, without her stretched out in front of him.
The hopelessness of the idea chilled him. He’d lived in an unhappy home for a long time. He’d been alone practically as long as he could remember. So why was the idea of her leaving and him being exactly as he’d started suddenly so damn scary?
Chapter Twenty-Five
The silence in the car seemed to carry a physical weight. The night, warm and a little humid, didn’t help. Rolling down her window didn’t offer reprieve, instead left the air to smack into her like a wet fist. She wasn’t sure where they were headed, nor did she question him. Instead, she leaned back, eyes half-closed, and hoped she looked relaxed.
Actually, it felt like someone was twisting a rubber band farther and farther out of shape inside her, leaving her nerves ready to snap. “So, do we have to appear on the beach and look like lovers? Or what’s your plan?”
“The plan is that we leave. We avoid the press. A couple in love on a vacation isn’t looking for photo ops. Just the opposite, really.” His gaze didn’t leave the road, and he lapsed back into silence. Minutes ticked by, and she counted the seconds of them.
Tapping her finger on the window frame, she asked, “Are we there yet?”
He snorted.
The rubber band distorted further.
After an infinite amount of time—she lost count on the seconds when they stretched into minutes, and then the minutes stretched further—he pulled onto a gravel driveway that led up to a sweeping set of white steps. He didn’t bother to come around to her door, instead grabbed their bags and passed all of them but one to a waiting member of staff.
Not even glancing back to see if she followed him, he strode into the hotel and out the back door, headed for a private bungalow set in the sand like a dream getaway. The path, lit by small tiki lanterns, led right up to the door he breezed through. The sound of waves crashing and the crunch of sand under her feet should have relaxed her, but she felt even less at ease. Like a silent scream of panic in her ears, she imagined years of living with him in strained silence…
She followed him inside. So this was it. Her honeymoon. Maybe this would show her if she’d made the right decision. If this could truly be enough.
The awkwardness and distance from the car ride apparently chased them to the room. Tired of the weight of it—of the constant tension of the past weeks altogether—she headed to the bar. An extensive quantity of options faced her, but she chose a nice looking bottle of Moscato.
It looked expensive. Was it okay for her to drink some?
Who in the hell cares?
She’d seen the way her husband flaunted his money. This was the lifestyle she’d bought into. May as well see if it fit.
She found a corkscrew, located like everything in his life—conveniently—and she struggled for a moment before managing to free the nearly clear liquid. Ignoring the wine glasses, she found a large water glass and filled it.
She brought the bottle with her, chose a chair near him, and began to drink.
Heavily.
The wine was cool, refreshing, and went down quite smoothly. It had been months…no, years since she’d been in a position to drink to delight. And the more she drank, the less loud her fears buzzed in her head.
It didn’t feel like much time had passed before she refilled her glass, glad for the warm haze falling over her.
…
When he’d imagined his wedding day, he’d never imagined a day like this one. Then again, he’d also never expected to care about his bride.
Fucking expectations. None of them mattered when it came to Jeanie.
She’d advised him this wasn’t a honeymoon. So it wasn’t.
Then why isn’t she going to bed? He knew there was only one in this suite, one monstrous bed he’d planned on laying her out on to watch her writhe for his touch. His one specific request to Lowe had been the bed, a hedonistic place for them to explore the passion between them, and for him to tempt her into confessing she felt more than a contract between them.
Instead of sleep, she apparently planned to get hammered. Quietly.
She never offered him a glass, nor did she seem to require any sort of encouragement to continue sipping away. While he appreciated a drunk woman as much as the next guy—warm, willing, no inhibitions—he could think of more interesting ways for his bride to spend their wedding night, not to mention safer ones considering his intention to keep his hands off her.
Refusing to look at her, he allowed time to pass. Perhaps, if he didn’t speak—didn’t move, really—she’d tire of his company and take her bottle to bed with her this first night of their wedded bliss. Or fall asleep.
Whichever.
Lord knew, those were the only ways he could resist her.
“You’re still not talking to me.”
Breaking a promise to himself, he slanted a glance at his bride, who’d slurred just a bit when she spoke. She’d changed into traveling clothes before they’d left the penthouse, apparently thinking a short flirty skirt and blouse were appropriate dress for honeymooning.
Since then, she’d undone butt
ons on the blouse, leaving the sides gaping to give teasing glimpses of too much flesh. Her lounging in the chair made her skirt ride up to reveal too much tempting thigh. He deemed the glimpses of her flesh inappropriate to his plan not to touch her. “I’m not not talking to you. I’m simply not talking. It’s been a long day. I’m relaxing.”
She snickered. “You look very relaxed.”
Okay, perhaps he didn’t look relaxed. Which is entirely your fault, wife. “I’m quite comfortable. Aren’t you?”
He made the mistake of considering her again. She stood, slowly. “No. It’s hot here.”
With that, she shed the blouse.
His gaze tracked up, unwilling to listen to his mind which screamed, Don’t look! But he did—from her bare stomach to her lovely breasts, just contained in a scrap of red—who in the fuck thought putting her in red was a good idea? The stylist is fired, first thing tomorrow. She looked…
Delicious.
His wife displayed a sweet combination of innocence and seduction, topped off with a lazy grin and hungry gaze. Her green eyes glittered in the semidarkness of the room, darker, mysterious, and full of womanly secrets he longed to explore.
He swallowed hard. He tried not to trip over his tongue and searched for a snarky response. “Feel better?” Well, it wasn’t snarky, but he didn’t beg her to come sit in his lap like a letch, so he’d consider it a win.
“A little.” She wiggled out of the skirt before dropping back in the chair to stretch her legs out to rest next to his on the coffee table facing the bay windows. “Ah, now that’s better.” She swigged her glass of wine. “But I’m running out of wine. And I feel a little…loopsie? So I’m not sure I’ll be able to open another bottle. Would you be a dear and figure out how to open another for me?”
She didn’t need more wine. She was already well on her way to shitfaced. “I’ll get right on that.” Stare out the window, Camden. Don’t look her way. The booze will make her sleepy, and she’ll go to bed.
His eyes were traitors and sought her flesh. It lay temptingly close and yet too far away.
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