"Because." I grab my drink, needing something to do with my hands. "Because this isyour brother'swedding. Laney's wedding. Our best friends. We can't just hijack their night and make it about us. That's…" I shake my head. "That's unforgivably selfish."
"Is it?" He tilts his head, considering. "Or would we be making their night even more memorable? Think about it." He shifts closer, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "They'd get to share their celebration with us. Everyone we love is already here. The venue's decorated, the music's playing, there's cake?—"
"That’stheircake?—"
"And an officiant who's probably having a drink in the corner right now." He's gaining momentum, and I can see the idea taking shape in his mind, becoming real. "All our friends and family in one place. No need for another gathering, another performance. We do it now, and it's done. Authentic. Spontaneous. The kind of love story people might actually believe."
My stomach flips. He's not wrong. The spontaneity would sell it. My hands start to tremble, and I press them flat against the bar. "Trigg, I can't… I need time to?—"
"Time to what?" His voice gentles, but his eyes stay keenly tuned on mine. "Talk yourself out of it? Build up more walls? We both know what this is. You said it yourself; it needs to be convincing." He pauses then adds quietly, "What's more convincing than two people who couldn't wait another day?"
I stare at him, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. "They'll think we're crazy."
"They'll think we're crazy in love." The corner of his mouth lifts. "Isn't that the point?" He leans back in his chair and studies me, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that he believes this half-cocked solution to our problems is over before it's ever begun. That I'm all talk. "That's my condition, sweetheart. Take it or leave it."
"Fine."
"Fine, what?" He narrows his gaze.
"You know what," I bite back.
He quirks a brow, and the bastard actually looksamused. "I'm going to need to hear the words."
My face goes hot, but there's no shame in it, only white-hot anger. The nerve of this man, sitting there with that infuriatingly smug expression, waiting for me to spell it out as though I'm the only one who needs this arrangement. He said himself he needs a wife to secure his merger. However, it doesn't have to be me. I, on the other hand, only have one option for a groom.
I pull air through my nose and swallow my pride, reminding myself that this was my plan. My proposition. Only now, he’s twisting it around, backing me into a corner, forcing me to either commit right here, right now, or walk away entirely.
"I'll marry you." The words somehow taste bitter, like defeat.
And the worst part? The absoluteworstpart is the way his eyes light up, just for a second, before he schools his features back into that mask of cool indifference. Like he's won something. The bartender appears, wiping down the section of the bar near us, and I realize how close we're sitting, how this must look. Two people huddled together in a dim corner, voices low, intensity crackling between us. From the outside, it probably does look like love. From the inside, it feels like I've just signed my life away with three words and a man who knows exactly how to get under my skin.
He raises his glass, that damnable smirk still playing at his lips. "To us, then."
I grab my own glass and drain it in one burning gulp rather than toast with him. The burn is still fresh in my throat as he takes my glass and sets it down before sliding off his stool and pulling me with him.
"What are you doing?"
"We're going to find the officiant," he says as though the answer is obvious.
His hand wraps around mine, warm, firm, possessive, and suddenly I'm being tugged away from the bar and deeper into the reception hall.
The bar was our quiet corner, our bubble of shadows and tension. Now we're moving into the heart of the festivities. The dance floor is packed with bodies, and he expertly winds us around the edges. My heels catch on the edge of someone's chair, and I stumble, but his grip tightens, steadying me without breaking stride.
"Trigg, wait—" I start as though my trip was some sort of sign that we shouldn’t be doing this. But he doesn’t wait.
We cut through the crowd, and my heart is racing, not just from the sudden movement but from the reality crashing down on me with every step. He spots the officiant near the back corner, a silver-haired man in his sixties nursing what looks like whiskey on the rocks. He glances up as we approach, his expression shifting from relaxed to curious.
"Officiant Reynolds," Trigger says, that easy charm sliding into place. "We have one more job for you this evening, if you're willing."
The man blinks. "Another ceremony?"
Trigger reaches into his jacket, pulls out a thick wad of cash, and presses it into the officiant's hand. "Meet us by the windows in five minutes." Officiant Reynolds looks at the money, then at us, then back at the money. Trigger squeezes his shoulder. "Remember, five minutes. Don't be late."
He doesn't give the man time to object before we're moving again. When I see he's pulling me toward the head table where his brother and Laney sit with their heads bent together in conversation, my stomach churns. Shit, this is the part where we ruin their night, where we tell them we want to get married too, but he doesn't stop at the table.
Instead, he reaches past a seated guest and grabs an empty champagne flute, then snags a butter knife from someone's place setting. The guest looks startled, but Trigger is already moving to the center of the dance floor, pulling me with him until we're standing in the middle of everything.
The music is still playing. People are still dancing and laughing when he raises the glass and begins tapping the knife against it.
