He steps over the threshold, carrying me, cradled in his arms until we get to the door of my room.
The penthouse is dim, lit only by the glow from the city filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline stretches out beyond the large glass windows.
I notice a few boxes around his bedroom door. He started moving in a few things this morning after I left to meet the girls for makeup and hair for the bridal party.
Now living together is starting to feel real, and with no timeline until my grandmother approves of this marriage and tells my father to back off, I have no idea how long we’ll be living like this.
He sets me down carefully, making sure I’m steady before he lets go.
“See?” he says. “Didn’t drop you.”
“Impressive,” I admit. “You may keep your hockey contract.”
“Wow. High praise.”
My feet scream as they reconnect with the floor. The heels that looked so beautiful in the boutique now feel like medieval torture devices. And this is coming from a girl with bruises and bandages on her feet from years of ballet.
Scottie notices the way I shift my weight, his brows drawing together. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“I cannot feel my toes,” I confess.
He holds out the bouquet. “Go take those off. I’ll put these in water before they die a tragic, avoidable death.”
The fact that he remembers to rescue the flowers does nothing to help me put up boundaries.
“Thank you,” I say.
I push through my bedroom and take a seat on the bed. I can hear Scottie in the kitchen, humming a sound that sounds alot like the song we danced to, mixed with the sound of glasses clinking and then the water running. Then, I hear the sound of him setting down a vase on the countertop.
The room looks the same as it did this morning. Perfectly made for bed. Neatly arranged a suitcase. The garment bag that once held my wedding dress now sits empty on the back of a chair.
I toe off my shoes with a sigh that borders on indecent relief, flexing my sore feet against the cool floor.
Then I reach back, fingers searching for the first button at the top of my spine.
I find it easily, but it takes a second to undo.
The second takes even more effort.
The third… I miss entirely, and this dress has twenty delicate buttons down the back of it.
I hear the sound of Scottie walking past my room and then opening the door to his room, shuffling his boxes into his room.
I twist my arm at an angle that would make my old ballet instructors proud. The dress digs into my ribs. My fingertips graze fabric and air, but the buttons remain stubbornly out of reach.
Heat creeps up the back of my neck, this time from frustration rather than attraction.
I am a grown woman. I have crossed continents, stood up to criminals, and signed my name on a marriage certificate tying my future to a virtual stranger.
And I am trapped by a line of tiny pearl buttons.
I close my eyes for a beat. Then open the door and peek out.
Scottie’s bedroom door is still open halfway, and though the bedroom light isn’t on, I can see the streaming of light from the bathroom, sounds of his electric toothbrush, I’m guessing, and then the sound of him turning it off.
“Scottie?” I ask at his door, in a low whisper, almost.
“Yeah?” he says, the echo in his bathroom carrying out to me.
