The photographer’s smile doesn’t wane. “The booking I received said you wanted a few pictures inside the courthouse atrium and out on the steps. Let’s start here, by the large doors…”
Rafe and I stand side by side in silence.
The photographer’s smile fades, and he lowers his camera. “Um… could you stand closer together?”
Rafe’s sigh is so faint, I think I’m the only one who hears. But he steps closer and puts a hand on the small of my back. It rests there, a warm, pressing weight. It’s the most uncomfortable touch I’ve ever felt.
“Just a few minutes,” he mutters in my ear. I wonder if he can feel my disgust.
I hope so.
I paste a smile on my face and look straight into the camera. The photographer snaps a few new pictures, and someone walking by in the distance calls out.Congratulations!
“That’s beautiful,” the photographer lies. “Let’s move to the steps and get some more dynamic shots, too. I would love to see you laugh, smile. Maybe drink champagne together. Let’s capture that happiness!” He turns and starts walking in the direction of the doors.
“Kill me now,” I mutter beneath my breath.
Rafe gives a dark chuckle. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen out of him since his expression changed when he first saw me enter the courthouse.
At least he’s not gloating.
He could be doing that, but I might punch him if he did.
“I considered it,” he says, “now that I have the shares. But I don’t like messes.”
I glance at him. “Funny.”
“A compliment, Wilde? Thank you.”
“We’re not kissing for the camera,” I tell him. My insides are knotted tight, and my voice comes out sharp. His hand on my back was enough. Standing here with him, posing, brings out memories I don’t want to revisit. Having to play all those tennis tournaments after my parents died to not lose the scholarship. Posing next to my trainer, smiling wide, wanting to run from the yawning hole inside. I’d inherited shares in a company… not loads of cash.
Rafe’s voice lowers. “We’re not kissingoffcamera either.”
I roll my eyes. “As if I’d ever let you.”
The photographer stops us halfway down the stairs, out in the warm, New York summer air. He waves us forward. “I want you both right here. Yes, like that. Can you angle slightly more toward your new husband, Mrs. Montclair?”
“I’m still Wilde,” I tell him.
The photographer nods quickly and holds up the camera. “Sorry, my bad. Get in closer, please… Look at each other.”
“Good. Because this is just an arrangement,” Rafe says. His hand is back on my waist, and his face is close to mine. “And not a permanent one.”
“We’re on the same page there.” I smile up at him, like I’m deeply in love. “You forced us into this corner.”
“By buying shares that your uncle had to put on the market? Hardly,” he mutters. This close, I catch a whiff of his cologne. My hands hang still by my sides. I should do something with them. But touching him…?
“You did it under a false name.”
“It was legal.”
“A gray zone,” I say.
“And you sold out your only living family for a chance to gain co-ownership of the company,” he says. “I’m not accepting judgment from you.”
The photographer clears his throat. “Uh, guys? Maybe you could look a little bit… happy?”
Rafe’s lips curve at a corner. “Can you do that, Wilde? Can you lookhappyto have me as a husband?” His hand is still on my waist. It’s warm through the thin silk of my ivory dress.
