Brayden snorts. “I wasn’t complimenting thefabric.”
He doesn’t mean anything by it. We’re playing parts. My makeup has the hardened feel of a theater mask. If I look closely enough, I can see a tacky streak of pomade taming his hair.
“I know I was supposed to bring flowers.” Brayden holds up his hands as if I can’t see that they’re empty, and I’m about to say that the chapel probably has flowers for sale—lord knows they have everything else—when he digs into his pocket and pulls out a jewelry box.
I know it’s not a ring. We picked those out already: a big-ass yellow rock for me and a plain platinum band for him like he didn’t want to put in any more effort than the minimum. So that box could be anything.
It’s probably generic mall jewelry, some part of me sneers in a voice that sounds like my fifth stepmother’s. Neither she nor my dad have answered my calls since this whole thing went down. When I dreamed of my wedding, it was always with my father walking me down the aisle. No offense to Miss Shirley, but I don’t think this will be the same.
I prepare myself to be grateful for whatever Brayden is giving me—he was there when I needed him, which is more than I can say for anyone else. Even if Brayden is looking at me with a gleam in his eyes that I don’t quite trust.
He hands me the long velvet box; its hinges squeak as I open it. A gold chain sits on the box’s satin lining, weighted by a pendant studded in diamonds and emeralds. Brayden casts another look down at my dress. “Lucky guess.”
But this doesn’t feel lucky. Not when he’s brought me a pendant in the shape of alock. “Thank you,” I grit out. “It’s beautiful.”
For some reason, he laughs, then spins me around until my back is to him, his mouth very near my ear. He gathers up my hair—not roughly, but not entirely gently—as his breath falls on the bare skin of my shoulders. “Two years,” he whispers. “Forsaking all others.”
Anything short of two years, and I’ll be out on my ass, without money or a degree or anything else. But I’ve spent thepast twenty-two years faking being my father’s spoiled, carefree daughter, the girl who giggled and then secretly got the highest grades in class. Hell, I’ve faked every orgasm an arrogant, fumbling boyfriend has tried to give me, then finished myself off when they were asleep.
What’s faking something else? If anyone sees us now, they’ll think we’re a couple whispering sweet nothings to each other right before we tie the knot. “Of course, darling,” I say sweetly. Then I step back and tap the heel of my stiletto against the top of his shoe, hard enough for him to feel it. “Mind your manners.”
That gets me a laugh, the snick of the necklace clasp as he closes it, the fall of my hair. The pendant sits well below my collarbone almost in the deep valley between my breasts, heavy enough to make it impossible to forget about.
“All right,wifey, you ready to do this?” Brayden reaches for my hand, and I slide my palm against his. He might look like he belongs on a yacht, but he has a ballplayer’s hands, studded in calluses. In twenty-four hours, he’ll be with his team playing the rest of their road trip—they have an off-day today—and I’ll be back in San Diego long enough to pack my stuff up to ship east.
He glances around the hallway—sure enough, Miss Shirley is at the door, watching us—and he tightens his hand in mine. It’s…nice.
Until I catch sight of something right above his collar: a deep purple mark.A hickeyin the exact shape of someone else’s mouth.
Right. This is aprofessional arrangementand nothing else. “We’re ready,” I call.
Miss Shirley takes a skeptical pull of her vape, then exhales a line of purple smoke. “C’mon, then.”
So Brayden walks me toward the chapel, my elbow locked in his.
“All right,lovebirds, you excited to get hitched?” Pastor Tim asks. Pastor Tim is a big guy in a big blue ruffled suit with a pink rhinestone collar and matching glitter-covered shoes.He manages to sound thrilled about our wedding, which is more than I can say for myself. Mostly because that necklace—that lock—feels heavier than it did a few minutes ago.
Still, I wouldn’t be my father’s daughter if I couldn’t straighten my shoulders, steady my jaw, and make the best out of any situation.It’s only two years.In two years I’ll have the degree of my dreams and then no one can ever stop me from standing on my own. In two years, Brayden and I can get quickie divorced with the same efficiency as we’re getting quickie married. “Of course.” I put on my best loving gaze.
Standing next to me, Brayden looks a little green around the edges. It’s possible he really does have cold feet.Or it’s possible he’s hungover.“Yes, sir,” he says finally. “More than ready.”
“Then let’s get this party rolling.” Pastor Tim instructs us to stand facing each other. “Now, Brayden, please take your beautiful bride-to-be’s hands in yours.”
Brayden does, clasping my hand in his, thumb stroking absently over the large yellow diamond like he thinks I need a reminder about who’s bankrolling the next few years of my life.
“Now repeat after me.” Pastor Tim reads from a large, laminated notecard, with blanks displaying where we should fill in the details. “I—” He nods at Brayden.
“I, Brayden Allen Forsyth.”
“Do take?—”
“Do take Savannah, uh, Burke.” Brayden’s voice hitches as he says it, clearly skipping over my middle name. Probably because he doesn’t know it. Pastor Tim glances at me as if to say,Do you really want to marry a guy who doesn’t know your middle name?
Loose threads poke their way from the pink rhinestones studding Pastor Tim’s collar. Clearly, he’d seen it all, and he’s still throwing me a look as if to say,Girl, run.
I tighten my grip in Brayden’s and try to look dewy-eyed and in love as Brayden repeats his way through his vows, sounding very much like he’s answering post-game interview questions from a reporter he doesn’t particularly like.
“Do you promise to love, honor, and cherish her, forsaking all others, as long as you both shall live?” Pastor Tim asks.
