Page 5 of Three Billionaire Grooms and Not the Right Bride

No. There’ll be no stroking of any jaws, I remind myself sternly. But the chastisement doesn’t last long before I’m drowning in their gorgeousness all over again. They can’t be mortal. No way. Their dark hair is groomed, without a strand out of place. They look polished, and I will bet my life on it that they’d smell good enough to lick all over. Also, no licking, Young. Stop it.

But despite being so impeccably put together, my heart does a weird thud, my nipples swell and ache, and the center between my thighs becomes hot and bothered. I’m still wearing my sensible cotton undies, and I feel a sliver of wetness press against my pebbled clit. What the hell is that about?

Beneath their luxurious facades, there’s an unmistakable danger about them. I don’t know why I feel it, but I do, in my bones and in every part of my body.

They’re as powerful as they are dangerous, and I’m the one who has to fool them into thinking I’m their prized bride, the one they’re honeymooning with in some exorbitantly lush villa in Italy where they’ll make love to their bride and give her their first heir.

This, this is the real whoopsie if I don’t pull it off. Mrs. Neal will throw me into the fire. But these men will roast me slowly over seductive flames for duping them.

I visibly stall. I see the way their brows dip to the center of their foreheads, almost as if they can see through me... to my bland granny panties. But then my vision is pulled in another direction. More like dragged, by my hair. And bam, it’s Mrs. Neal, giving me the death eye to get a move on. And not fuck this up.

I have no idea how I make my legs move, but they do, even if I feel as if I’m drunk walking down the aisle. My entire body goes into overdrive as I near them. Dear god, the scent of their cologne is like an aphrodisiac to me. Heat seeps into my skin, leaving me a hot mess. Thank goodness they can’t see my cheeks, which are currently on fire.

While Mrs. Neal surreptitiously grinds her teeth at me, I’m trying not to fall apart at the seams. Being this close to them is the most unnerving kind of torture ever.

In fact, why does it feel so erotic? I need a glass of water. No, that bottle of champagne, and I don’t drink or have sex for that matter. So basically I know nothing about either, but I can’t explain my reaction to them in person. I think I’m having a slow-burn meltdown.

I tell myself not to break right now and focus on my life after this. I imagine waking up every morning and knowing I won’t turn up dead on the news, killed by gangsters I was in a monetary feud with. The relief. I have to do it for the relief.

So I do. And I say I do in a small voice, and the officiant makes me say it again and again, but I get through it. Thank gosh there was no exchanging of vows, but then it’s the rings.

I almost snatch my hand away as each one of them slips a band onto my finger that locks into the next one. And I almost pass out touching their huge hands, which are not soft and pampered but rather hard with calluses and tattoos right there on their knuckles. I’m so mesmerized it’s only their chuckles that bring me back to the task at hand.

Oh no, it’s the kissing part now. I will pass out if they kiss me, so I softly tell the officiant I won’t be kissing the grooms—not today; I’m just too shy. And she, of course, smiles and lets me have my way.

I did it. I did it. I did it. Three times over with three billionaires. As a body double for the real bride. I’m home free. Mrs. Neal is coming toward me. This is when I feign my headache, and she gets me out of there.

But then I hear the officiant say, “We’ll sign the marriage license now.”

I vaguely hear Mrs. Neal insist we do it later in a more private setting, perhaps in Italy, which the billionaires decline. No one says no to Mrs. Neal, well, except them. And so I’m brought to a table and handed a pen by the officiant.

Shit.

I should faint. Right now. Yes, that’s the kind of damage control I need. But what if they lift the veil, expecting to see an angel and find a peasant instead? I’ll be screwed. Mrs. Neal will kill me anyway. I really need to rethink my life and why I seem to accumulate people who are just out to get me.

My hand trembling, my thoughts zapping my brain like lightning, I tell myself to remain calm. All I have to do is sign the document in Tatiana’s name. There. Easy.

But my nerves get the better of me, and I start with an H instead of a T, so I scribble over and carry on. By the time I’m signing her surname, I’ve again inadvertently ended it with a G because panic makes me stupid.

But there. That will do. Mrs. Neal peers over my shoulder and shudders. The signature is terrible. I don’t care. I just want to get out of here right now.

I only let out a breath when finally Mrs. Neal whisks me away. She could be happier. In her opinion, it went perfectly well. Who’s going to question the signature on the license? Everyone present thought it was Tatiana herself, and as long as they think that where’s the worry? And since I’m going to the grave with this secret, no one in the world is ever going to find out.

Now, where do I want to take a vacation? Anywhere, but I have to leave tomorrow. I need to clear my head and shock my body back into normal mode. This was very stressful for me. I need a damn holiday.

Chapter Five

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Edison

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I swirl the rich dark liquid in my glass before gulping it down. My business partners, Cristian Harvey and Dayton Watson, do the same. Strange doesn’t quite cover the day we’ve had.

We always knew we’d have to marry someday, and that day came upon us quicker than we expected. Our families started demanding grandchildren, and soon our mothers went bride shopping for us.

If we thought we’d buy ourselves more time by informing our families that we’re breaking tradition and will be sharing a wife, they couldn’t contain their glee. So that backfired, and before long, they were planning our wedding to Tatiana Neal after they scoured nearly the entire planet.