“Not all of them.” He pulls his lips down toward his jaw as if to make thewhoopsface. “Well, let’s do this, and then let’s get you wasted.”
“Let’s do it,” I say, and he opens the car door.
Flashbulbs explode in our faces as we hear the same noisy voices yelling at us as the last time we did this.
“Dex Bradley!”
“Dex, are you going to get into a fight again tonight?”
I roll my eyes at that one.
“Dex, over here! Dex!”
“Who’s your date?”
Dex looks at me, and I mouth, “Fuck it,” to him.
He grins as he turns to the entertainment reporters and influencers yelling questions at us. “This is Ainsley Bradley, my wife.”
A collective gasp rises up from the group gathered, causing just a split second of stunned silence, and then more questions are fired at us.
“When did you get married?”
“Show us the ring!”
“Is this real?”
“Kiss for the cameras!”
He turns toward me, and I look over at him, and the cameras are going crazy for the two of us. I can’t wait to see how we look together as we look at each other, me likely with adoration in my eyes for this hot football star who’s suddenly my husband, as if any of this makes any sense at all.
He leans in, and his lips meet mine in what’s only our second kiss.
This one is just for the cameras and just because someone in the crowd requested it, but I can’t help feeling like this is some sort of fairy tale. Like I’m Cinderella, and this is the ball, and this swoony older single dad is the prince who rescued me as I work hard to rescue him right back.
CHAPTER 20: Dex Bradley
Long, Lingering Gaze
That’s twice.
Two times I’ve kissed her.
Two times that were far too short.
Two times that were for show.
I want to kiss her forme. I want to kiss her not because it’s expected at the end of a ceremony and not because the media is yelling at me to do it and I need to prove something to them. I want to do it because I fucking want to do it.
I shouldn’t. I can’t. I need to remember all the reasons why it’s a horrible, terrible idea.
We walk into the event, and we grab a drink first—more whiskey for me, and she opts for a peach bellini since it’s the featured cocktail and the bartender tells her it doesn’t really taste like alcohol at all.
She takes her first sip and smiles with delight. “This is delicious,” she says.
“Be careful,” I warn. “Prosecco will likely get to work pretty fast on someone who doesn’t drink much.”
What the fuck?
