by Wendy Warren
Minna and Hal had gifted them with a suite at the Nines Hotel in Portland for their wedding night. They’d insisted, actually. No baby, no distractions and, according to her, no whoopee.
“May I, um, speak to you alone for a moment?” she murmured to her husband. Time to address the elephant in the room...or under the tent, as the case may be. “Excuse us,” she said to Edie and Hugh, who waved them on with big grins.
Night had fallen. High overhead, stars mimicked the twinkle lights around the tent as she steered Ethan to the shadows beyond the patio area.
Facing him, she could clearly make out how gorgeous he was in his tux, even in the night shadows. “So,” she began brightly, then faltered. “So.”
He leaned forward. “You look beautiful. Have I told you that?”
She laughed a little. “Yes, but thank you. Again.” Nervously, Gemma fingered her skirt. “Elyse wasn’t thrilled with my choice of polka dots.”
“Are you kidding? There should be a law—from now on, all brides have to wear polka dots on their wedding day. You’re stunning, Gemma.”
Heat—no, let’s be honest here: lust—filled her. She swallowed with difficulty. “Yeah, okay, only can you tell me what’s going on here? Not that I don’t like it,” she hastened to add. “I like it. I like it fine. I like it...really well. It’s just that...it’s a bit of a surprise.” He was frowning.
“What are you talking about?”
Okay, spit it out like a big girl. “What’s with all the kissing and nuzzling?” she said plainly. “And the copious use of cutesy names.”
“‘Cutesy’?” Ethan’s frown deepened. “They’re not cutesy. I hate cutesy.”
“Well, these have been cutesy. In a good way. I just wonder why you’re doing it?”
The summer night seemed to hum with an energy of its own, beyond the music and laughter emanating from the tent. Ethan’s gaze and his silence lingered until finally his voice emerged as velvety as the sky. “Don’t you enjoy kissing and nuzzling?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Me, too.” She felt his fingers touch her waist again, but more lightly this time. “I like it a lot. Which is convenient since we’re trying to make people believe we’re average, everyday newlyweds.”
“Right.” A breathy laugh escaped. “I think we’ve certainly fooled my mom. And Aunt Edie and Uncle Hugh. You were laying it on pretty thick in there, after all.” She hitched her head toward the tent. Was it as obvious to him as it was to her that she was fishing for him to say he meant every kiss and every nuzzle?
“I wasn’t ‘laying it on thick,’” he protested. “I was playing the part of devoted husband to your beautiful bride—” he took a step closer, looking very much as if he planned to kiss her again “—because I don’t want there to be a doubt, ever, in anyone’s mind that I wanted this marriage.’”
He had her at “beautiful bride.” Almost.
Once Gemma’s desire-addled brain processed the words play the part of, she realized... “You’re playing the part so I won’t look like I’m being jilted.” Again. But she didn’t say that. “Aren’t you? If we break up, I mean, after our three-month trial period.”
“Seems like the gentlemanly thing to do,” he murmured, “though I wouldn’t have put it quite that way.” He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, then tilted his head. “You’re upset.”
“No, I’m not.” Yes, I am!
“The point is, if things don’t work out for any reason, you can blame it all on me.”
“Well, then, I’m grateful. That’s—” she clenched every muscle in her face, determined not to release a single one of the tears stupidly queuing up behind her eyes “—super thoughtful.” He was gazing at her, concerned, and she knew she needed to lighten things up, fast. “What reason should I give for dumping your celebrated butt?”
He shook his head, but she could make out his smile. “I don’t know. The sex?”
Ha! She’d bet her wedding band that no one had ever left him for that reason. “Okay, what’s going to be the problem? Too much? Too little? Not of an acceptable quality?”
His smile deepened. “Yeah, forget it. You’ll never leave me because of the sex.”
As he continued to gaze at her, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say next. Usually she enjoyed it when they teased each other. Tonight, though, she simply felt sad. “It’s depressing to talk about breaking up at your wedding.”
Slowly, Ethan’s expression turned more serious. “Agreed. But the future is open-ended, right? We don’t need to predict what’s going to happen.”
“Nope.”
For a second it seemed he was going to touch her cheek, but the hand he’d raised lowered again without making contact.
A burst of laughter rose inside the tent when the band suggested over the microphone that the happy couple must be off somewhere “getting happier.”
“Our cue to go back?” Ethan murmured.
“Must be.”
Taking the arm he offered, she walked with him, side by side, to their reception.
No question about it. This was going to be the most complicated wedding night in history.
Chapter Eleven
Much to Gemma’s chagrin, Minna and Hal had not only provided a suite at the beautiful Nines Hotel in downtown Portland as a surprise wedding gift, but Minna had also obviously given detailed instructions as to how the room should be decorated. The already-opulent space was filled with dozens of roses and warm ivory candles, plus a silver tray filled with chocolate-covered strawberries. An expensive bottle of champagne, wrapped in linen, sat chilling in a bucket of ice.
The sound of water streaming from the rain forest showerhead serenaded Gemma through the closed bathroom door as Ethan bathed and she searched through her overnight case for her pajamas. After they’d returned to the reception, Ethan had appeared to be in a great mood, and she figured she’d faked “young and in love” pretty well, though she had indeed dodged a few of his more overt attempts to persuade their guests that he was head over heels.
“What the heck,” she muttered now, tossing items from her luggage. Her pajamas were nowhere to be found, and she was sure she’d packed them last night. Instead, at the bottom of the case, she found a tiny pink bag from Victoria’s Secret. What on earth? She frowned as she opened the attached card.
Gemma,
You cannot wear emoji pajamas on your wedding night. You’ll thank me later.
Love,
Elyse
“Oh, no.” Tossing the card onto the nightstand, she fumbled with the tissue inside the bag and withdrew a scrap of black lace. According to the tag, the wisp of material that looked like a child’s headband was actually a “sheer lace plunge teddy.” It was sheer, all right. Holding it up to the light, she could see clear through it. And plunging? Yep.
The water in the bathroom stopped, triggering a surge of panic in Gemma as she frantically tore through every pocket of her overnight case. Her sister had left her with no clothing options other than the pedal pushers she planned to wear the next day. Elyse had, however, thoughtfully provided literally dozens of condoms, which she had crammed into every pocket, nook and cranny. A cornucopia of birth control. Interesting, considering she and Ethan only had the room for the one night.
Her first task as a married woman would be to kill her baby sister.
Grimly, she stared at the wisp of lace dangling from her fingertips. No way could she wear this to bed with Ethan, not under the circumstances.
She heard the sound of toothbrushing. Uh-oh. She glanced nervously around the room. Ethan would be out any minute. She couldn’t wear tomorrow’s pants to bed on her wedding night, and her only other choice was to climb under the covers in her wedding dress with its giant, noisy taffeta skirt and hope he didn’t think she was insane.
Ohhh. It was the teddy or buff-o. “You win, you big buttinsky,” she growled to her absent-but-there-in-spirit sister and wondered how to handle the actual clothing change. If she waited until it was her turn in the bathroom, she’d have to walk all the way from the door to the bed in only the teddy. With the lights on. Leaving nothing to the imagination. In front of Ethan.
Not happening. Getting to work, she wrestled her way out of the voluminous wedding dress and into Elyse’s special gift. Once she had the various tiny strings and straps and lace bits where she assumed they belonged, she peeked at her reflection in the mirror.
Oh, sweet mother of everything holy. There was no lining in the bra of this thing. Nothing, not even a strategically placed seam. And she wasn’t exactly built like her sister, who had spent her twenties researching “breast implants” on the internet. Darn her! Gemma wanted her cotton pj’s back. She’d made such a big deal over keeping her trial marriage sex-free. What was Ethan going to think now?
After finding out his kisses and his embrace and his cutesy-patootsie names for her were nothing more than a big show—however well-intentioned—she wasn’t about to risk looking like she wanted to seduce him. No, no, no. Rushing to the vanity, she found a small stack of hand towels and tried stuffing a couple into the teensy bra cups currently straining to support her. She certainly didn’t need the padding, but hoped the coverage would provide some modesty. A check in the mirror told her all she needed to know: no matter how she folded or smoothed or prodded them, the towels were about as attractive as the nursing pads Lucy had worn while breastfeeding.
The sink stopped running. He’d be out any second.
Gemma was out of time. Abandoning the towels in a heap on the sink, she flew to the bed.
From the nightstand, she grabbed the stack of books and pamphlets the social worker had asked them to read and tossed everything onto the mattress, then dived beneath the covers. Hastily, she tucked the top sheet and the blanket tightly around her body and up to her neck. Her heart pounded crazily when the bathroom door opened and Ethan emerged amid a cloud of steam, wearing only pajama bottoms and looking very much like a model. Which he sometimes was.
What the devil were you thinking, marrying someone that good-looking? demanded a voice inside her head. William, at least, had looked like a normal person.
Stay cool, she chanted to herself. Stay cool. So you checked into a romantic hotel room to sleep next to a half-naked man. It’s not like it’s the first time. It was the second, actually. And William had unfortunately suffered from pigeon chest...but that was neither here nor there.
Ethan flipped off the light switch in the vanity area, leaving them in the glow that came from the bedside lamps and the various candles that burned around the room. As he came to the edge of the bed, he stared down at the materials she’d scattered over the comforter and frowned.
“What’s all this?”
Gemma hoped her shrug was casual. “I thought we’d read. That’s what Jeanne wants us to do, right? Study, study. So I figured we may as well get started. I’m not sleepy. Unless you are. And then I could be sleepy. Sleepy enough to...actually sleep.” Wonderful, Gemma. Outstanding display of bedtime nonchalance.
“No, I’m not sleepy,” he acknowledged, still frowning.
“Okay, then.” Holding the covers to her neck with one hand, she used the other to reach for one of the books. “This looks like a good place to start. Effects of Prenatal Drug Exposure on Child Development.” That sounded like a libido-killer.
Ethan picked up the remote on his nightstand. “Sure. Before we knuckle down on the homework, why don’t we see what’s on TV?”
“Oh. Um, if you want.”
He began to channel surf, asking what she’d like to watch, but Gemma didn’t have much of an opinion. After settling on an action movie, Ethan got into bed and sat up against the pillows. Quickly, she scooted over, taking the covers with her, then trying to make sure he had his share while maintaining a grip, literally, on her modesty. As still as marble, she stared at the TV, seeing nothing, but noting that Ethan’s head turned her way several times. He shifted a lot, too, giving the appearance he was no more interested in TV viewing than she.
Finally, during a commercial break, Gemma suggested, “Maybe we should start reading now. The day we told Jeanne we were getting married, she said we still needed to prove we’re willing to do the work it will take to be awarded permanent custody of Cody. Remember?” she prodded when Ethan continued to frown at the screen. He said nothing. “We’re running out of time here. Jeanne wants to see us in two weeks, and she’ll be expecting—”
He clicked the TV off. “Let’s not worry about studying tonight, Professor.” His smile seemed half-hearted. “You hungry? We could go out.”
Not talk about studying tonight? He never wanted to read the materials Jeanne had assigned. “Ethan,” she said as he got off the bed, “we’re not dressed, and getting ready would be a hassle.”
“We can order room service.” Picking up the menu, he gave it a glance, then tossed it onto the bed. “I bet they have a steak.”
“I’m really not hungry,” she said, as he picked up the phone and punched in zero. When the operator came on, he asked for room service, even though the extension was printed clearly on the phone. Probably on the menu, too. Idly, she picked it up. Yup, the number was right there at the top of the first page. A quick glance told her they weren’t going to be able to order from the grill this late at night.
She stared at Ethan as he asked for a steak, was obviously given the information she’d just gleaned from the page and then had room service verbally tell him what was available. The feeling that something was wrong landed upon her as it had a couple of times before, only this time more strongly.
He set down the phone. “They said they’d be here in about forty-five minutes. If you don’t want to wait, I could call them back to cancel and we could get dressed again. There are several really good restaurants close by.”
She was not ready to let go of this question, niggling at her. “Do you dislike reading?” He hesitated too long. “Ethan, what’s going on? We got married for Cody’s sake. Shouldn’t we do the work it’s going to take to keep him?”
Without looking at her, he moved restlessly toward the window and stared out. “Yes. We should do the work to keep him.” Ethan’s voice was tight, his carved-from-granite back and shoulders rigid.
Concern, curiosity and exasperation were tossed into the pot of emotion inside her. “Ethan, talk to me. I know how much you want Cody. You’ve been sweating blood for him. You were willing to get married to keep him, for heaven’s sake. But if you want me to help you, you can’t shut me out.”
His shoulders flagged and his head dropped. “I’m going to lose him.”
She was genuinely stunned. “What do you mean? Why would you think—” As the possibilities filtered into her mind, adrenaline flowed through her veins. “Have you spoken to Jeanne recently? Did she say something?”
“No.” He rubbed his forehead, then pushed his fingers through his hair. Slowly, he turned to face her, his next sentence emerging through a jaw so clenched, she had to strain to hear the words. “I can’t read.” The angst and shame in his expression was heartbreaking.
Gemma’s next breath was a long, deep inhalation. She was looking at a man who had a Super Bowl ring and multimillion-dollar endorsements. He was Ethan Ladd, Thunder Ridge’s favorite son.
He couldn’t read.
All the things that had never made sense before began to click into the puzzle that was Ethan. A respectful, responsible teenager who blew off assignments or persuaded others to do the work for him. A man with myriad responsibilities and people who were constantly trying to contact him, but who refused to text. And who couldn’t read the label on a box of baby ointment.
“The essay I wrot
e for you in high school. You couldn’t read it. That’s why you turned it in.”
“Yes,” he admitted tightly.
Guilt welled in her throat. He’d had no clue she’d intended it to be a joke. “But the wedding license,” she recalled. “You asked me to let you fill it out for both of us.”
“Because I knew I wouldn’t be able to fill it out at all if I had to do it in front of you. I can read and write simple things. Unless I’m stressed, and then sometimes even simple isn’t possible.”
“So who filled it out?”
“Aunt Claire. She told me we could do it online, and...she helped me.”
“Does she help you often?”
He nodded. “I wouldn’t be where I am without her. She had no idea how bad the situation was until my senior year of high school. You can fake a lot of things, and Samantha covered for me until the drugs took over. When it came time to fake my way into a football career, though...” He shook his head. “Most players begin their careers in college. I knew I’d never survive higher education, so I figured I’d work my way up by playing semipro, but even with that I panicked and told Claire everything. Up to then, they thought I just hated school. I finally admitted I’d tried as hard as I could and still wasn’t able to do what most third graders could do in their sleep.” His tone grew self-derogatory. “Claire doesn’t have a lot of education, but she’s smart. Unlike yours truly,” he snorted. “The big success story. What a freaking fake.” His eyes were filled with pain. “I’m so damn sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I lied to you.” He looked out the window again, to the city spread out before him. “I let you marry a man who can’t read a book to his nephew. Or figure out how much cold medicine to give. And you—” he glanced back at her, resigned now, but no less apologetic “—you deserve a helluva lot more. You could have married anyone.”