What about you?I want to ask. Is he alsoforsaking all others?But my father taught me never to ask a question you don’t want the answer to. Brayden can do whatever he wants. I’m trading being locked up in one tower for another. “So do we have a deal?” I say instead.
Brayden grins, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “That all works for me.” He extends a hand and then thinks better of it. He climbs out of the booth, moves to the middle of the floor like he’s trying to attract the attention of the crowd. More people look over—he’s a few inches taller than I am, moves with a kind of cocky arrogance that readsYou should know who I am.
From the way people at the bar are staring at him, they clearly do.
“What are you—” I start to say, then cut myself off when he drops to one knee. Oh no.Oh no.
“Savannah,” he says, loud, clearly for other people’s ears. “I know we haven’t known each other for that long.”
I try not to snort.
“But as someone recently told me,when you know, you know. And I know that I can’t go one more day without you.” He blinks up at me, gray eyes hard. “What I’m asking is—will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
Chapter Five
Savannah
July
I’m notone of those girls who grew up dreaming of my wedding—but in whatever fantasies I do have, my groom probably won’t be late.
The witness we hired—Las Vegas quickie wedding venues really will sell you anything—keeps poking her head out of the chapel door to look at me expectantly.
Can I sue Brayden for breach of contract? Probably not for a verbal contract only the two of us know about.
I bide my time fantasizing about the wedding I was supposed to have. A villa in Italy. A winter marriage in Aspen. A beach wedding on soft sand. How I’d walk to him, barefoot, and we’d embrace as the ocean waves crashed in approval.
I definitely never pictured where I currently am: in a Las Vegas hallway wearing a dress I crammed in my suitcase and couldn’t steam the wrinkles out of no matter how much I tried,in shoes I bought last year and almost immediately scuffed one of the heels.You can always buy new ones.
But of course now I can’t. I check my phone again. Brayden said he’d be here five minutes ago.Maybe he’s stuck in traffic. Only we’re staying in the same hotel suite and Vegas in July is so hot, there are walkways between buildings, connecting each block like an enormous human hamster maze.Maybe he’s reconsidering this whole thing.I wouldn’t blame him, not when I’ve been doing the exact same thing.
Our witness—she introduced herself asMissShirley as if to emphasize how not married she was—pokes her head out of the chapel again. “Cold feet?” she asks me, in a tone that both conveys sympathy and a lack of surprise. Given that this is what she does for a job, she’s probably seen a lot of broken engagements and brides left at the altar.
“He’s just running a little late,” I say, trying to convey,You know how men are.
“Of course, honey.” Miss Shirley takes a long pull off her vape. A cloud of grape-tinged smoke wafts through the chapel. “The course of true love ain’t without its bumps.” Miss Shirley is maybe forty-five, but she has the kind of eyes that say she’s seen a lot in those decades. Too young to be that cynical, but then again, I’m half her age and I’m agreeing to marry a man I barely know.
It’s only two years.In any other circumstances, I’d be texting my annoyance to Victoria. But of course, I’m not telling her about this until it’s done with. She’d tell me—diplomatically, but firmly—that I’m making the wrong decision.
A position I’m starting to agree with as every second goes by.
Me: You’re late
No response from Brayden.
Another few minutes go by.
Me: You’re really late
Still no response. I might as well pack it up. I’ve spent the last two months wondering if I should come to my senses. At least he sent me enough cash to cover living expenses, including a few months of migraine medication. I can take myself out for drinks and a meal while I figure out a plan B. Knowing Vegas, there’s probably an entire divorce-themed buffet, even if we never technically got married. I open my phone camera to touch up my lipstick when someone whistles.
Brayden.
He’s standing up the hallway, leaning casually against the wall as if he wanted to study me from afar. I imagined him stumbling toward the chapel, drunk or hungover. But no, he’s wearing a navy summer-weight suit cut slim enough to show off the width of his shoulders and wide enough that he looks rich and at ease. His tan glows against his white shirt. His dark blond hair is just this side of tousled. He looks like he stepped out of a country club or off a yacht. He looks like the kind of man I was supposed to grow up and marry—but not in a place like this.
“That’s quite a dress,” he says.
I look down at myself—my dress is from last season, ankle-length, an emerald color that transforms my hazel eyes all the way green. Normally, I would have retired it from regular rotation so no one commented how Ialwayslook so good in it—with the implication that I can’t afford anything else. Except now I really can’t. “I figured the color would photograph well.”
