Brayden swallows, a bob of his Adam’s apple. “I do,” he says, tightly.
Now, it’s my turn. I don’t wait for Pastor Tim’s cues. “I, SavannahMarieBurke, do take BraydenAllenForsyth—” And I recite my vows as Pastor Tim reads them to me: promising to be Brayden’s as much as he promised to be mine.Which isn’t that much at all.
“So…” Pastor Tim begins, then trails off.
This is the part where you’re supposed to be declaring us husband and wife.
“Are we done or not?” Brayden snaps.
Pastor Tim gives me another of those looks. “By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I declare youmarried.You may now kiss your lovely bride.”
Neither of us move. The lights of the chapel have gels over them, casting the whole place in a glow that’s closer tohighlighterthangolden. Pastor Tim is very obviously watching us. Maybe, when he gets off work, he’s going to go home and tell someone—a partner, a friend, all of social media—that BraydenForsyth was in a chapel marrying a wife he pretty obviously wasn’t that into. If we can’t convince Pastor Tim—a man who must loveloveso much that he’s willing to put on that suit to marry people—what hope is there of convincing anyone else?
We should’ve practiced kissing. We didn’t. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m walking into a test unprepared.
Brayden doesn’t drop my hands. My chest tightens, the fabric of my dress pulling taut against my ribs.It’s just a kiss. I was the lead in a lot of plays in high school, mostly because I could memorize lines and had what my drama teacher called acommandingpresence.
I don’t feelcommandingright now. Brayden’s hands are callused, his expression similarly hard. Pastor Tim must know something’s up. Miss Shirley and the AV tech must know something’s up. I don’t know if there’s a lucrative market for photos of a baseball playernotkissing his new wife, but I don’t want to find out.
I tap Brayden’s palm expectantly with the edge of my nail, raise my eyebrows in clear command. Mutterkiss meunder my breath and wait for him to press a perfunctory peck on my lips before we can go sign the paperwork to declare us legally bound to one another.
Brayden drops my hands. Technically you don’t have to kiss to be married, and he must have decided that I’m not worth it.
I’m about to ask Pastor Tim about the paperwork when Brayden reaches for me, one hand at my waist and the other at the back of my neck. He steps closer. He has wide shoulders, ballplayer shoulders, hard with muscle. He doesn’t seem big until he’s looming right over me.
Closer, his eyes are that same stormy gray. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. “I’m going to kiss you,” he says, and I nod a little helplessly. It isn’t a question because I’ve already saidyes. Yes, to this marriage and two years together. Yes, to kissing him so that no one has any doubts as to whose wife I am.
I close my eyes. In the darkness of my own eyelids, he could be anyone. This could be anything other than what it is: two people pretending.
But even with my eyes closed, it’s impossible to pretend he’s not right there. He smells like expensive cologne, expensive detergent, expensive soap. I grew up with money. I know what it smells like.
His fingers trace the line of my neck, a gentle stroke that he then buries in the mass of my hair. Pastor Tim can’t see from this angle, but maybe we’re going for authenticity. Here’s a man so in love with his wife that he wants to savor every moment of kissing her. My pulse quickens. Tiny beads of sweat start to spring up at my hairline.
Until Brayden hooks his forefinger under the chain of my necklace, and pulls the lock up, almost tight against my throat.
A reminder. A warning, even: I’m his, even if he isn’t mine.
And that’s when he kisses me.
This isn’t a neat little peck for a witness. This is ademand.His lips, his arm at my waist. The expensive fabric of his shirt brushing the bare skin of my chest. His tongue in my mouth, teeth scraping against the swollen flesh of my lower lip.
I make a noise low in my throat—I’m supposed to be telling him to stop, that this is enough, that everyone involved must be convinced that we’re together and in love—but all I can think iskiss me again.
He doesn’t. He steps back, grinning as I pant, then flashes a smile at Pastor Tim that’s all teeth. “That work?”
“Just so you know,” Pastor Tim says, “Nevada has an, er, relaxed approach to annulment. In case you need to do that. For any reason.”
“Thanks for letting us know.” Brayden slides his hand in mine, fingers tight like he can tell I’m considering making a break for it. “But that won’t be necessary, will it, Mrs. Forsyth?”
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me. “No,” I lie, “we’re together.”For better or for worse.
Chapter Six
Savannah
July
On paper,the flight from San Diego is supposed to take four hours, but we hit wind coming over the Rocky Mountains that pushes us there faster. I might be the only person on the flight who wants it to slow down.
