“Of course it’s not wrong,” Francesca says. “It’s good, I suppose.”
“It was good,” I murmur, knowing the word doesn’t come close to describing the feeling of his lips on mine, his scent filling the air around me, the closeness of his body to mine.
Francesca throws me an odd look. “I know he’s my brother, soeuw, but did you just say it was a good kiss?”
“It was magical.”
Francesca’s jaw drops. “Magical? Kissing my brother wasmagical?” Her hands shoot up in the air. “Please don’t give me details, especially if there was any hint of tongue. I don’t need to hear about it.”
I laugh. It comes out all giggly and light. “But itwasmagical, Fran.”
“Nope!” Francesca claps her hands over her ears. “Irefuse to hear about Fred being magical. He’s my brother. Mybrother.” Her horrified expression is so very Francesca that I can’t help laughing once more.
“When we kissed the world sort of tilted,” I say, more to myself than to Francesca. “It was like everything and everyone in the room evaporated, and it was just him and me, together, locked in our own little world.”
Francesca shakes her head, her eyes wide. “My emotionally constipated brother is a good kisser. Asti, you might be the first person in the history of all time to say something like that.”
“So why do these photos make us look like strangers who’d rather be anywhere else?”
A small voice in my head tells me why.Fred wanted to be anywhere else.
There was no magic in that kiss for him.
“You know this changes everything. Don’t you?”
I shake my head. “Straight afterwards he was the same old Fred, and all we’ve done in the last few days is agree on guest lists and seating plans. Oh, and he timed me walking, too.”
“He timed you walking?” She scrunches up her face. “Let me guess: he needed to know exactly how long it would take you to walk down the aisle?”
“How did you know?”
“I know my brother.” She jabs her finger at the paper. “Why didn’t they share a kissing photo instead of this?”
“What do theothernewspapers say?”
Because surely the others can’t be as bad as this.
“Well—” Francesca begins, shifting from foot to foot. “One said Frederic looks like he’s walking in a funeral march.”
“Ouch.”
“The Herald said you looked like you were both posing for passport photos at gun point.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Another said you looked very pretty in your outfit, though,” she adds brightly. “So that’s something.”
“I suppose.” I chew on my lip.
“I think the problem is, after this engagement photo disaster, your entire relationship looks suspicious. You look like you’re not the real deal.”
“We’re not the real deal,” I remind her gently.
“Yes,obviously.I know that. Fred knows that. Our parents know that. But no one else does.”
She’s right. The press doesn’t know. The world doesn’t know.
And it does matter.
