Beyond These Walls (The Walls Duet #2)

by J. L. Berg

  As the guests had all filed out and been whisked away to the beautiful hotel ballroom that was serving as our reception location for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, we had stayed behind with our small bridal party and family to take photos.

  As I dutifully followed directions from our patient and amazing photographer, I felt it—the subtle brush of his fingers across my bare skin, the way his body seemed to hover just a bit closer each time we readjusted our poses. He was doing it on purpose and in front of our family.

  And, dang it, I was letting him.

  I knew it probably all seemed innocent to anyone nearby—a brush of a hand, a tender kiss. For me, it was anything but. With the raging inferno threatening to burst free from me, desire so fierce pooled deep within that I felt like we might as well be filming a porno right there in front of my mother and father.

  “Okay, I think that’s enough of the family photos. Everyone but Lailah and Jude can head over to the reception,” the photographer announced.

  I nearly sighed in relief, and then I saw Jude’s mouth twitch beside me.

  “Oh, shut up,” I muttered.

  We got another round of quick congratulations, and then it was just the two of us and the photographer.

  But she earned the reputation that had preceded her by managing to fade into the background and letting us do what came naturally—getting caught up in each other. We moved around the church, taking photos in candlelight and near the large arches of the windows. Nothing was posed or stagnant, and it only perpetuated the need to have him more.

  After about fifteen minutes, the photographer had gotten everything she needed, and we were let free to join the others at our reception.

  “Ready to party, Mrs. Cavanaugh?” Jude asked as he took off his tailored jacket. He placed it on my shoulders right before opening the heavy church door.

  “I’d actually rather drive around in the limo for a few hours.”

  His eyes darkened, and we stepped into the cold winter air. My head tilted upwards, catching tiny snowflakes from the flurries that had begun during the ceremony.

  “Snow,” he stated, glancing up at the wintery sky.

  “Snow,” I repeated, remembering my wedding vows from just an hour earlier.

  “Let’s find that limo,” he said.

  Scooping me into his arms, he walked down the steps toward the street. I laughed, but it was cut short when I heard him curse.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “The limo is gone.”

  “Maybe he’s just down the street?” I suggested.

  Jude set me down. Romantic moment now over, we looked from one side of the street to the other, but there was no limo in sight.

  “I specifically requested that one be left behind for us.”

  “Well . . . hmm . . .” was all I could offer before adding, “Taxi?”

  He turned to me like I’d lost my mind. “In your wedding dress?”

  “Well, it’s either that, or we walk.”

  His hand was in the air before I’d even finished the sentence.

  Five minutes passed before a taxi was crazy enough to pick us up. Apparently, seeing a bride and a groom in front of a church was just too much drama for most NYC drivers to handle. Luckily, Mo from Queens was feeling a bit adventurous and decided he needed a good laugh as Jude spoke with him through the window before quickly helping me shove the many layers of my designer gown into the shabby backseat.

  “You running away?” Mo asked in a heavy accent.

  “No! Of course not!” I said adamantly. “Our limo that was supposed to take us to our reception disappeared.”

  “Limo drivers—can’t trust those guys.” He laughed. “Well, let’s get the king and queen to their party!”

  Jude gave him the address, and within fifteen minutes, we arrived fashionably late to our own reception.

  “They’re here!” Grace yelled, running up to us in her beautiful green satin dress. The way it fit her flattered her figure perfectly, yet it still gave her that frilly feminine look she loved so much.

  Even though it wasn’t pink, I’d still kept her in mind when picking it out.

  “Sorry,” we apologized as we walked in. “Our limo was missing.”

  “What? Well, only one was out there when we left, but I asked him to go back.” She was incredibly flustered.

  I placed my hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. He probably just didn’t understand. We took a cab.”

  She looked horrified. Her eyes roamed my dress, searching for evidence of our harrowing journey.

  “We’re fine, really.”

  “Come on. Let’s go enjoy the evening,” Jude encouraged, throwing an arm around the both of us.

  “Wait!” Grace came to a halt, and she turned. “You guys can’t just waltz in. You must be introduced. It’s tradition.”

  We looked at each other and grinned, both realizing we needed to give Grace this moment.

  “Okay. We’ll wait here then.” I said.

  “Yes! I’ll let the band know. The lead singer will announce you, and then you can have your grand entrance as husband and wife. Very classy.”

  She flitted off as both of us held our breath, trying to keep from bursting into laughter.

  “She’s intense. Has she ever considered becoming an event organizer?” Jude asked, a chuckle escaping his throat.

  “Or dictator. No one would even know they were being ruled because she’s so sweet.”

  A deep voice came over the microphone, and we scooted closer to the ballroom just in time to hear the magic words. Grace opened the door, her face beaming, as a spotlight hit us square in our faces.

  We held hands and made our way through the throng of people clapping and cheering. It was like being a celebrity for a night, and I suddenly realized why movie stars were all so thin. There was no time to eat.

  Jude and I had spent a hefty amount of time picking out a beautiful place to have the reception. It needed to be classy enough for his mother’s guests and for us. Well, all we’d really cared about was the food. This location had class and great food. Their chef was amazing and managed to make food that was both divine and not overbearing.

  But I hadn’t had a chance to eat any of it since arriving at our table. Every time I raised my fork to my mouth, someone would tap on my shoulder, ready to congratulate me or offer hugs and kisses. It was lovely and heartfelt, and I adored the attention, but if I didn’t get food in my belly soon, people were going to see what a bridezilla truly looked like.

  “Miss?” a young waiter said at my side before correcting himself. “I mean, Mrs. Cavanaugh?” His hand covered his mouth as he cleared his throat and blushed, clearly nervous.

  I took a moment to glance over at my new husband, who was giving him the evil eye.

  “Lailah is fine,” I replied sweetly before giving Jude a look that told him to stand down.

  “The chef has requested final approval on the cake,” he said, his eyes darting toward the kitchen and then back to me.

  “Um . . . oh. I’m sure whatever he’s done is fine,” I said with a wave of my hand.

  If there were an award for an easygoing bride, I would win, hands down. No meltdown bridezilla here.

  He pulled at the neck of his collar before wiping his palms against his black slacks. “He was quite insistent.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I sighed, not wanting to cause the poor thing any more discomfort.

  “Do you want me to accompany you?” Jude offered, rising from his seat to take my hand.

  “No, it’s all right. I’ll be right back. One of us should stay and eat. Save my plate?” I requested, kissing his cheek and he nodded.

  I followed the waiter toward the back, waving and smiling as I quickly rushed by. He held the door for me, and I made my way into the kitchen. Quickly remembering the last time I’d been in an industrial kitchen like this, I smiled. Seeing the stainless steel workspaces, memories of pizza dough and marinara sauce flooded my mind. But
they were quickly dashed when I saw a single place setting, complete with candles and a cloth napkin waiting for me.

  “What is this?” I asked, turning toward the waiter.

  “Dinner,” he answered. Then, he promptly took his leave through a swinging door, which led further into the depths of the kitchen.

  I looked around, searching for answers, and then I found them.

  Standing stoically in the corner, he wore his trademark smile and a designer black suit.

  “Nice of you to join us,” I muttered.

  “I’ve been here the entire time,” he answered. “In the background, where I belong . . . on a day such as this,” he added.

  “You did this?” I asked, not bothering to hide the surprise in my tone.

  “Well, we couldn’t have the bride fainting on her wedding day, could we?” Roman said, taking a step forward, as his hand slid across the cool steel of the table.

  “And what about your brother?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest in defiance.

  “Well, someone needs to entertain the masses.” His face curled into a wicked grin.

  “Why, Roman?” I questioned, taking an angry step toward him. “Why be generous now? After all these months? Don’t you see what you’ve been putting your brother through?”

  His features contorted—first with anger and then melting into something closer to pain. He studied the floor, never making eye contact, as he seemed to fight an internal battle for control.

  It seemed to be ages before he spoke, “I’ve been to hundreds of these types of things.” Apparently, he decided to entirely skirt around my pointed questions.

  “Weddings?” I asked.

  “Weddings, fundraisers, galas—they’re all the same. Same boring people, same dull food.”

  I glanced down at my second dinner. It was growing colder by the minute, and I pouted. It wasn’t dull. It was beautiful.

  “If you stay in New York long enough, you’ll realize this. It doesn’t matter where you go or what you attend—they all look the same. Pompous old men will brag about their portfolios and riches while their trophy wives will admire each other’s gowns and gossip about the latest scandal. It never changes.”

  “And what would you know about interesting conversations?” I challenged. I eyed my food one more time as my stomach growled.

  “Nothing, I’m sure. As always, I’m just here for the booze.”

  He looked at my untouched plate as he walked up to me. Our shoulders touched for the briefest moment.

  “Better eat up, dear sister. They’ll start to notice your absence soon.”

  Then, he was gone.

  And I was left wondering just how many sides there were to my strange and mysterious new brother and whether I’d ever figure them all out.

  “DO YOU REMEMBER the first time we danced to this song?” I asked.

  Lailah and I slowly swayed back and forth to the haunting lyrics of “All of Me” by John Legend. Everyone was gathered around as we took our first dance as husband and wife.

  “How could I forget?” Lailah answered, her warm smile lighting up the room. “You hummed the lyrics in my ear—perfectly in tune, I might add—which only added more proof to the ever growing pile of evidence that you were far too perfect to be real.” Her brief laugh interrupted her thoughts. “Then, later that evening, you asked me to move in with you.”

  My grip tightened around her waist as I pulled her against me, remembering the sheer joy we’d felt that night after discovering that she was being released from the hospital. It was everything we’d hoped for—a start at something real.

  “And now? Now that you’ve peeked behind the curtain and gotten to see the real Jude, am I still perfect?” I asked with a wolfish grin.

  “No.” She laughed. “You snore when you’re sick, and you never put the toilet seat down. And don’t get me started on the empty cereal boxes in the pantry.”

  I chuckled under my breath.

  “But I wouldn’t want you any other way,” she said with sincerity. “Love isn’t about perfection. It’s a beautiful chaotic mess, and there isn’t anyone I’d rather spend my life with than you.”

  “So, you’re saying I’m not perfect anymore?” I grinned down at her.

  “Sorry, babe. You’re still pretty hot though,” she offered with a shrug.

  I just shook my head, using the lull in the conversation to step back. I quickly adjusted my feet and hands, and before she even realized what was going on, I had her spinning. She giggled, a young joyful sound, until she fell back into my arms. The guests clapped and hollered as we continued dancing.

  She just looked up at me and smiled.

  “You know,” I began, “you’re not perfect anymore either.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “The minute I saw those feminine products all over my bathroom, you suddenly became a little less perfect.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “Tampons? Really? Holding my hair back in the hospital while I puked my guts out didn’t do it?”

  “No. That just reminded me how strong you were,” I answered honestly. “How strong you still are.”

  A few glasses clinked together before a few more chimed in, and soon, much like the rest of the evening had gone, the entire ballroom was filled with the sounds of people tapping their glasses with spare utensils.

  The wait staff must really hate this wedding ritual.

  I didn’t know how I’d made it into adulthood without ever knowing of this particular wedding tradition, but I had been well introduced to it now. As the chorus of clinking stemware rose, I looked down at my bride and smiled.

  “I guess we should oblige,” I said.

  “Oh, okay.”

  A shy grin tugged at the corner of her mouth just before I bent down to capture her lips. The sound of clinking glasses dissolved into cheers as the crowd finally got what they’d asked for—a kiss from the bride and groom.

  My finger wove into her hair as I pulled her closer, never breaking the rhythmic sway of our bodies. Her fingers clutched my forearm before sliding around my wrist. Then, I felt her lips curve into a tender smile.

  “You wore them.”

  “Of course I did.” I gazed down at my wrist where the cuff link Marcus had given me rested.

  It was part of a set, and were a wedding gift from my bride.

  “Do you know what they are?” she asked against my ear.

  I shook my head, turning my hand to get a better look. The blue-green stone caught the light, illuminating the bright color within. She’d chosen a simple silver setting, which only enhanced the raw edges that the jeweler had left untouched.

  “It’s sea glass from the beach where we took our first walk through the sand.”

  My eyes flew up to hers in surprise. “You never cease to amaze me,” I managed to say. My voice was rough, and I was fighting back overwhelming emotions.

  “As do you.”

  Our first dance melted into a second and a third until it felt like we’d been dancing for hours. Our family and friends all joined us, and the music picked up as we celebrated the day in style.

  About an hour later, the cake was brought out, and we posed in front of it for the photographer.

  As we picked up the knife, Lailah eyed me warily. “I won’t remind you about how much time I spent getting ready today, Jude,” she warned, looking over my shoulder at the tall cake standing behind us.

  I smiled mischievously. I had no intention of smashing cake in her face, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t mess with her.

  “Duly noted,” I replied, my voice calm and flat.

  “Jude.”

  “Yes, Angel?”

  “I’m wearing a thong,” she whispered.

  Game over.

  I looked up at her grinning face and blinked. That was all I could manage—a blank face and an eye blink. Sure, I’d seen a thong or two in my life, but Lailah was different. Lailah was mine, and whatever she did—or wore—was always exclusively
mine. I’d never thought I’d be one of those caveman-type males who relished in the thought that my woman would only ever be mine, but I couldn’t help it.

  Knowing I was the only man who had ever touched her did great things to my male ego. Being full aware that I would be the only one to ever see her in a thong . . . yeah, it rendered me speechless.

  “Good. I’m glad we worked that out.” She laughed.

  I tried unsuccessfully to adjust myself in my pants. I settled on buttoning my jacket instead. I heard Lailah snicker beside me, and I tossed her the evil eye.

  Together, we picked up the knife and gently sliced through the bottom tier of the cake as cameras snapped and flashed behind us. Cutting a single piece, we placed it on the porcelain plate the wait staff had provided. I looked up and saw Lailah’s eyebrow rise in challenge.

  Apparently, I was going first.

  I picked up the plate and cut a small piece with the fork. Ever so gently, making sure I kept my thong rights intact, I fed my bride a tiny piece of cake. A bit of triumph swam in those crystal-blue eyes as she took the plate from me and began the same process.

  I watched her pick up the piece of chocolate cake with her fingers, just as I had. Amusement painted her porcelain skin as she came toward me, and then shrieks of hysteria were heard throughout the ballroom after she’d shoved the piece of cake in my face, smearing frosting and cake crumbs all over my skin.

  I should have known.

  My tongue darted out and licked a piece of frosting hanging on the corner of my lip as people giggled.

  “Mmm . . . it’s good,” I said. “Really good. Want to try?” I asked Lailah.

  She backed away. “No!” she squealed right before I grabbed her waist.

  “Jude!” She laughed as I caught her lips in a sugary-sweet kiss.

  “Cheater,” I whispered.

  “Just keeping you on your toes.” She reminded me.

  “You always do.”

  And she always would.

  “I about died when your brother caught my garter,” Lailah exclaimed, falling back into the corner of the limo with a giggle.