“No,” he said, his voice suddenly rougher and more distant. “It’s like a love thing.”
The word love made my heart stutter. Too much. Too soon. Too real.
“When my dad died in combat, they found this in his pocket. One of his friends—someone who knew how much he loved my mom—said he was planning to propose when he came home,” Nick said, swallowing hard. His throat bobbed, his jaw tight. “But he never got that chance.”
My hand rose instinctively to my mouth. “Oh my God. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. So am I. If he’d married her sooner, she wouldn’t have struggled the way she did. She raised two kids alone in a country that didn’t give a damn about her loss.”
“Did she know he was going to propose?”
“She suspected. But I think he didn’t want to propose and then leave. He wanted to do it right.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.
“Because it’s the same reason I’ve never proposed to anyone. Never even come close.”
The words struck somewhere deep, unguarded. I wanted them to mean something. I wanted to mean something. He looked at me then, and there was something broken in his expression,something barely held together. “It’s why my mom told me—never hesitate when you find the one. Marriage should be for love, not convenience.”
And then, just like that, the moment shattered.
“So even though this goes against my beliefs,” he said, stepping back toward the door, “the show must go on.” He turned, and the echo of his words cut deeper than I expected. That tiny glimmer of hope I’d let flicker inside me? Gone. Snuffed out. Crushed beneath the weight of everything this wasn’t.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, steeled myself, and followed him. “Let the show begin,” I whispered, as the hotel door clicked shut behind us.
I wanted to laugh. I needed to laugh—because the man dressed like Elvis in front of us was too much. But my nerves had clawed their way into my throat, strangling the sound before it could escape. The scent of old onions and greasy meat wafted off him, and my stomach twisted, dangerously close to revolt. My palms were slick with sweat as he began reading the vows. My fingers were locked with Nick’s, and his touch felt too warm, too steady for the storm unraveling inside me.
You can do this. You can do this.
I kept repeating it like a lifeline, but the rising heat under my skin betrayed me. Why the hell hadn’t we practiced the kiss? One kiss. One stupid kiss. All great actors prepare, right? How could I fake this if that kiss was our first real one?
No, it’s not real. It’s just a kiss. Just make it look real. Pretend. Just pretend. You’ve been pretending your whole life, Melanie. One more time won’t kill you.
A loud buzzing sound broke through the noise in my head. I flicked my gaze sideways without moving, spotting the witness the chapel provided—dead asleep, snoring like it was his full-time job. His complete disinterest in our sham wedding settled something deep in my chest. My breath eased, ever so slightly.
“Melanie,” the priest said, dragging me back into the moment. “Will you turn to Nick and cite your vows, repeating after me?”
I nodded, lifting my chin, forcing my lips into the kind of smileactresses used in movies—the ones that started in the eyes. That was the trick, right? Make the eyes believe it. I lingered there, staring into Nick’s emerald green eyes, letting myself fall into the illusion. Just for a second.
And God help me—it almost felt real.
“I, Melanie, take you, Nick, to be my husband…” The words spilled out, each one pushing me deeper into dangerous territory. I could see him watching me, expression unreadable, the corners of his mouth tilted in that smile that could either be part of the show or something more. Was he laughing at me on the inside? Or did it feel real to him, too?
“Now, I pronounce you husband and wife,” Elvis announced with flair.
We turned to him, then back to each other.
Nick let go of my hands slowly, like he didn’t want to, and slipped one to the small of my back. My skin burned under his touch. His other hand cradled my cheek with such deliberate gentleness that I forgot to breathe. The kiss came slowly, like gravity had decided for us, and when our lips finally met, there was nothing fake about the heat curling low in my belly.
His mouth was soft at first, teasing, but when I leaned in, when our tongues brushed, I felt him deepen it. He devoured slowly, deliberately. I could barely stop the shiver that rolled down my spine when he finally let go. I was empty without his touch, like someone had ripped out a piece of me and left the hole gaping.
“That’ll make for some great photos,” Elvis said, but it felt like background noise.
Nick grabbed my hand, and we turned, walking down the aisle to Fools Rush In, the song practically mocking me. The photographer flashed her camera, her gum snapping between chews like a drumbeat to my chaotic thoughts.
“Put your leg right there, hun,” she directed. “You’ve got great legs—show ‘em off.”
Her accent was either faked or a genre of its own. I didn’t care.
