To think, I’d devoted months upon months to planning a wedding down to every picture-perfect minute and this one was said and done in fewer than five.
“Are you exchanging rings?” the alderman asked.
“Oh, I—” I grimaced up at Noah. Did fake marriages require rings? “No. I don’t know. I don’t think so?”
“Here.” Noah reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a brown string. “It’s twine,” he said as if he was apologizing. He took my hand. “We tie it around our jam jars. I had an extra piece and”—he kept his gaze low as he looped it around my fourth finger, tied a bow—“you don’t have to keep it.”
“I didn’t think,” I started, shaking my head as if that would explain all the reasons I hadn’t thought to bring something for him. “I’m sorry.”
“No need,” he said, still occupied with the twine.
The alderman glanced between us several times before continuing. “By the power vested in me by the state of Rhode Island, I am pleased to be the first to announce you as husband and wife. Congratulations.”
Noah tore his gaze away from my hand and up to my face, his expression as cool and stony as the front side of this building. I would’ve given anything to know what he was thinking.
Instead, I pulled my hand from his hold and held it up in the universal high five position.
As one did upon getting fake married.
After a pause where he only blinked at my hand, Noah slapped his palm to mine. I threaded my fingers between his and pumped our joined hands like we’d just won a cutthroat game of doubles ping-pong.
Noah laughed quietly. “Come on, wife. Let’s get you some lunch.”
* * *
“This is really good,”I said, jabbing my fork in the direction of my plate.
“Is it good or is it that your frame of reference is limited to pudding cups and popcorn?”
I took another bite of the summer tomato salad and considered Noah’s question as I chewed. “It’s really good. And I don’t just eat pudding and popcorn.”
“Oh, right. Can’t forget about the Cheez-Its.”
“And rice,” I said between bites. “I reheat a lot of rice.”
Noah glanced out the window at the foot traffic on North Main Street while he drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “Don’t tell me that,” he murmured.
I rustled in the bread basket. “Why not? It’s the truth. I don’t see any reason to shelter you.”
He turned back to me and drew his fingers into a fist. It struck me then how right he looked in this upscale restaurant. The plaid shirts and worn jeans were deceptive but this boy knew how to order wine by the bottle and fit right in with the weekday power lunch crew. My view from this side of the table was immaculate.
“Manhattan must’ve loved you,” I said.
He arched a brow. “In what way?”
I gestured to his suit, the still-askew tie. “Oh, you know. All the ways Manhattan loves big law and a Tom Ford suit.” When his eyes narrowed, I added, “In the best ways, Noah. I swear, the best. I bet you had a lot of fun there.”
He chuckled. “I didn’t suffer.”
“Are you telling me you were a party boy?”
Another chuckle. “Not nearly. No. But things worked out nicely for me in the city. I did my internships under the most senior partner at the firm. He’d come up from an agricultural family from Maine and hated his way through Yale the same way I did and—”
“You hated Yale? Are you kidding me? That’s all you’d ever wanted.”
He paused, sighed, carefully chose his words. “I didn’thateit but”—he shook his head, dragged his teeth over his lower lip—“dreams and realities rarely align. Anyway, this partner took me on and made a point of bringing me to all the lunches, all the dinners, all the events on yachts and at Hamptons beach houses that somehow qualified as billable hours. It was an education.”
“And you signed on at that firm after you finished law school?”
