“It looks like we had a good time,” she murmured, but then she flipped to the next picture, the one of our kiss and?—
Jesus.
I’d kissed her like a man starved. Like someone who’d been waiting years instead of weeks. I’d literally swept her off her feet, my arm under her knees, her body arched against me, both of us laughing into each other’s mouths.
I couldn’t remember a single moment of it, but my body sure seemed to. As I stared at it, things happened south of the border that definitely shouldn’t have been happening. Charlotte might be my wife now, but this was also supposed to be fake.
I shifted, hooking my ankle over my knee so my little problem wouldn’t be immediately obvious if she happened to glance at my crotch. But it turned out I shouldn’t have worried. She was still intently flipping through the pictures and she lifted one, a portrait-style shot of us standing side by side in those hideous outfits, giving each other dopey, goofy smiles while standing in front of the Bellagio fountain.
“We should get this one framed to put on our mantel,” she joked.
I forced a nod, willing myself to get a fucking grip. “My mom would love that.”
Charlotte laughed, the sound soft, surprised, and a little cracked around the edges, but the tension that had been choking the room finally loosened. She leaned her head against my shoulder and looked up, still smiling.
Her eyes were bloodshot, but she didn’t seem unhappy or angry about what we’d done. “Ourmantel. That’s going to be weird getting used to.”
I chuckled and rested my head on top of hers. “Let’s get cleaned up and find some food before we try to solve the rest of our lives.”
She nodded, but neither of us moved for a long moment. Eventually, I got her downstairs for breakfast, though I wasn’t entirely sure how she was still upright. I’d never seen her this undone before, no makeup, her hair a wet, wild mess after her shower, drowning in one of my old T-shirts and wearing a pair of athletic shorts I was pretty sure she stole out of my duffel.
I could’ve stared at her for an hour.The flip-flops, though?
“Those should be illegal,” I muttered as we walked toward the restaurant.
She snorted. “They’re comfortable. That’s the only thing that matters today.”
“They look like you mugged a middle-aged tourist.”
She shoved me with her shoulder, laughing again. “You’re just jealous. Your feet aren’t nearly as relaxed as mine right now, but I couldn’t even brush my freaking hair properly without crying. There was no way I was putting on heels.”
As she lifted her hand to touch her hair as if to prove her point, I noticed the ring, but not the real engagement ring I’d slid onto her finger back in Chicago. The other one.
A gaudy, fake, plastic monstrosity we must’ve bought last night. Big, gold, and ugly as sin. It looked like something awashed-up Vegas lounge singer would pawn for bus fare, and then I glanced down at my own hand.
Same damn thing. Huge. Hideous. Sparkling like a cheap disco ball on my knuckle. She followed my stare and bit down a laugh.
“Oh my God. Trent. What the hell were we thinking?”
“I’m never taking it off,” I declared in response, my face completely straight. “It’s mine and I love it.”
“It’s turning your finger green.”
I shrugged. “Wicked.”
What I didn’t expect as I steered her into the restaurant was the pang of truth beneath those words, but it was there and it slammed into my chest like a punch. I, Trent Shepard, liked having this ring on my finger.
I liked seeing something on her hand that said she was mine and I was hers, even if it was that plastic nightmare. I liked it so much that not even the pounding in my head could stop the surge of excitement that shot through me.
Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice the way I was staring at her as we sat down. Charlotte Westwood. My wife. Technically, Charlotte Shepard now.
Just the thought made my cock start swelling behind my fly all over again. It seemed I was developing a new kink—knowing that my wife was my wife.Yeah, that’s going to make things uncomfortable for me for a while.
She ordered a mountain of pancakes with strawberries, whipped cream, chocolate chips, and caramel. More toppings than actual pancake.
I stuck to my usual—eggs, bacon, and sausage. After the waitress left us alone, Charlotte looked around the dining area, her gaze flitting from one table to another like she was trying to ascertain if we were the only ones who’d done something crazy last night.
On the other hand, we were going to do it this morning anyway. It just looked like we’d been a lot more relaxed about it last night than we would’ve been right about now.
