“You can laugh, but I feel the difference matters.”
“Maybe to you.”
I’ve never thought about the difference, to be honest. But that’s not to say I wouldn’t have spun him a whole tale about my belief in the sacrament of a church wedding over a mere civil ceremony if I thought it might hit a nerve.
“I bet we wouldn’t have had this trouble in Vegas,” I mutter.
“It would’ve taken less greasing of palms, too. But the distance and the time didn’t suit either of us.”
It makes me wonder what he has to be back in London for.
“So who’s the other one?” My eyes dart over his shoulder to where the taller of the two men is now enjoying the view on the terrace.
“S?nor Martin. He’s the registrar.”
My stomach flips.The one who’ll marry us.
“Well, I don’t have a dress.” I look up again from the depths of my backpack. “Maybe we’ll have to come back another day?” That sounded entirely too hopeful.
“Try again.”
How strange. And such confliction. Do I want to marry him? Not really. I don’t particularly want to marry anyone. But do I want a million in my bank? Absolutely, I do. And then there’s this tiny part of me that wouldn’t mind another go with his tongue. Not that I will in a marriage that’s strictly business.
He made that clear enough.
In the depths of the black canvas, my fingers fold around a wad of delicate fabric. “The best I have is a beach cover-up.”
“What, like a blanket?”
“Who takes a blanket to cover up at the beach?” I give my head an exasperated shake. “This.” I pull a little of the white crocheted garment out of my bag. “This is what you put on over a bikini.”
“You brought a bikini?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, I’m just confused by your processing.”
“You said ‘sunny climate,’ so I packed accordingly.”
But he’s still frowning.
“I didn’t think I’d need a wedding dress,” I whisper hiss.
“Not even with a train and mutton sleeves?” The corner of his mouth curls.
“Don’t forget the hooped skirt. It’s mandatory.” My gaze slides over his shoulder to the men, then back again. “I thought we’d do it in what I’m standing in.”
“It wouldn’t be a first time,” he replies silkily.
“Not do it,do it.” Urgh, I sound so juvenile. I stuff my cover-up back into my backpack.
“I think I might like to marry you in a bikini.”
“I’m not sure it’ll fit you,” I say, ignoring the flame of pleasure his tone ignites.
“I’m serious. We’lldo itout by the pool. Put on the bikini and coverall—”
“Up. It’s cover-up.” I frown. “And it doesn’t cover a lot at all, to be honest.”
