Dom: Absolutely not.
Klein: Hurry up. We're hungry. Don't make us late AGAIN. And for the love, nobody needs to be reminded no muff is too tuff for you. Have a little class and wear a different shirt to brunch.
A knock on the door interrupts my all-caps expletive response. I swing the door open and find a bellboy, and, blessedly, my missing suitcase.
He hands it off to me, and I heave a sigh of relief when I get it opened. Nothing is missing.
Rifling through the clothing, I find a fresh shirt and pull it on. The shirt I bought so I could continue the night is hung now, but it was lying in the middle of the floor when I stepped out from the shower. Cecily's work, no doubt. Taunting me.
And, as if Cecily removed it and dropped it where she stood, the T-shirt I wore to dinner last night lies on the bed.
Swiping the shirt from the sheets, I fold it quickly and lay it on the table. And ok, yes, Imighthave raised it to my nose. Imighthave inhaled. Cecily can be as prickly as a damn teddy bear cholla, but she smells sweeter than the desert after a rain.
Don't let me get started on those soft little moans I felt in her throat when I kissed her. It's better for both of us if I forget about them.
Cecily, mywife, does her best to pointedly ignore me for the remainder of the day.
Once the group gets over their collective shock and awe at hearing ourmarried in Vegasstory, we become the butt of every joke.
For example: Cecily said she loved the sandwich she had for lunch, and Paloma saidwell you can't marry it because you're already married.
One guy Klein plays his weekly soccer match with asked how long Cecily and I are waiting to have kids.
And on and on. And on.
Somehow, after last night's shenanigans, the group rallies. We end up at the hotel pool, and the drinking continues. Not for me, and not for Cecily, either.
Something about drunkenly marrying someone is quite sobering.
Cecily lounges on the chair beside me, because Klein, who hasn't stopped being delighted by last night's events, insisted newlyweds sit together.
Cecily wears a white bikini with light pink and butter yellow flowers printed on it, the kind of print I'd have expected on someone sweet, not someone who would launch a poison-tipped dart at me if given the chance. The ruffled edge of the fabric flutters with every breath she takes, giving her a delicate, almost fragile quality that juxtaposes with everything I know about this woman.
Is there anything fragile about her? It doesn't appear so, not with the defiant set of her jaw, or the storm clouds brewing in her eyes.
Despite all this, I can't help the way my gaze rakes over her long legs, the curve of her waist. Her skin looks smooth and supple, soft. My imagination runs wild at the thought of gliding my hands over her, but not for long. It's hard to fantasize about a person whose expression is that sharp, pinched and irritated.
She must be mad about more than the fact we're married. Now that the abject horror has worn off, isn't this something to laugh about? There is an end in sight for us, and this will one day become a hilarious anecdote. She'll be at a party, and someone will tell their best drunk story, and Cecily will sayOh, you think getting drunk and flashing a cop is funny? Listen to this.
Judging from Cecily's stiff posture and hate-vibes rising off her skin like mist, she's not there yet. She might be lounging in a chair, but her jaw is tight, eyes closed, arms crossed over her stomach. If it weren't for the breeze gently pushing tendrils of dark hair that have fallen from her braid, she could be mistaken for a statue.
I think I'll try talking to her. I am her husband, after all. Pretty sure that earns me the right to address her, however brief our marriage will be. "Cecily?—"
"Nope." She enunciates the 'p'. Her eyes remain closed. "Nothing from you, thank you. I'm relaxing."
I lean over the low armrest of my chair, and because she is stubbornly keeping her eyes closed, she doesn't see me coming. Lips an inch from her ear, I softly say, "Hate to break it to you, but you look anything but relaxed, Menace."
It works. Her eyes open, cutting to me with razor sharpness. Something tells me it was the nickname that got her.
I called her that this morning through the bathroom door but didn't get to see her reaction. From what I can tell, it hits themark flawlessly, making Cecily the perfect amount of intrigued and irritated.
We're close now, and something flares in her gaze. Discomfort, I think, and although I love teasing this woman, I'm not into making her feel uneasy. I sit back.
She sighs like I am an inconvenience in human form and pulls a bottle of sunscreen from the straw bag lying on the end of her chair. She lathers up her legs, and at this point I'm certain the universe is testing my ability to maintain eye contact instead of salivate over the way she smoothes her hands over her skin.
With manufactured disinterest, she says, "Don't you have some errands to run for Satan?"
I am reluctantly impressed by her little nickname for me. It's inventive and has just the right amount of derision. Placing my palm dramatically on my chest, I tell her, "I have no affiliation with the Prince of Darkness, despite your repeated assertions."
