Page 46 of The Temporary Bride

“It’s just the way things work in our world,” Beckett says with a sage tone that only a youngest sibling can manage. “I mean, Mom and Dad had it the same way, didn’t they?”

Reid snorts. “If Mom had an out after three years, she definitely would’ve taken it. I don’t think their arrangement had the same option.”

His words make me wince. My parents’ marriage was arranged just like mine, a strategic business move, and I always thought it showed. There was no real warmth in it that I could see, no overt demonstrations of love. Just two people bound together by obligation to their family’s legacy, going through the motions until the end.

Chloe’s face flashes in my mind, and I think about the walls she’s been putting up lately, the way she pulls back even after intimate moments. I don’t know what to do with that.

Hell, I don’t know what to do with any of this.

I can’t tell if I’m looking forward to my wedding on Saturday or dreading it. Both, probably.

But as I glance around the room at my brothers, who continue to banter easily, I feel some relief at the realization that no matter what happens, I won’t be alone.

Chapter 15

Chloe

The bridal suite at the vineyard is stunning, which I registered distantly about forty minutes ago and haven’t thought about since. Instead, I’ve been sitting very still in a chair while a makeup artist works on my face and trying very hard not to think about what’s happening today.

The room smells like the white peonies and garden roses that have been arranged on every surface, and through the tall windows, I can see part of the space where the ceremony is going to happen, which doesn’t help. I keep catching glimpses of white chairs being arranged in neat rows and wedding staff moving around with brisk efficiency. It’s all happening so fast, the big moment barreling toward me with the speed of a runaway train.

The makeup artist is good at what she does, which I appreciate, because I need to look a hell of a lot more composed than I feel right now. She hasn’t asked me to do much except sit still and look forward, and I’ve been managing both of those things adequately, which is honestly more than I expected of myself this morning. I woke up at five-thirty and lay in the dark for over an hour just staring at the ceiling of my condo, unable to sleep, my brain cycling through the same loop of thoughts on repeat until I finally gave up and got in the shower.

She holds out a brush for me to take so that she can switch to a different one, and when I reach up, my hand shakes.

She notices it and gives me a warm smile in the mirror. “Nervous?”

“A little.”

That’s the understatement of the year.

“Don’t be.” She clicks her tongue, getting back to work with a light, practiced touch. “Just breathe through it. Big days like this feel overwhelming right up until you’re actually in them, and then everything narrows down and gets simple.” She blends something along my cheekbone. “Once you’re up there with him, all the noise falls away. You’ll see. And then comes everything after, all the good stuff.” She smiles again, winking at me. “You’ll have the rest of your life with the man you love. Compared to that, a few nerves this morning is nothing.”

“Right.” I swallow hard, handing the brush back before lacing my fingers together in my lap. “Thanks.”

The man I love.

She doesn’t know the truth, obviously, and I’m not going to say anything to correct her. But it’s the part after that has my hands shaking, not the ceremony itself. The ceremony has a beginning and an end, and I know I can get through it. The part after is three years of living with Tristan Thorne. Sharing a bedroom and a bathroom and a kitchen and working alongside, and figuring out what to do with the unexpected tension that’s been bubbling up between us over the past few weeks.

When I agreed to this, three years felt like a finite, manageable stretch of time. Something with clear parameters and a defined endpoint. I had it mapped out in my head. We’d keep things professional and cool. We’d keep a reasonable amount of distance, fulfill the terms of the arrangement, and then go our separate ways without ever having to speak to each other again.

But then he kissed me the second time, and I kissed him back, and all those plans stopped making sense.

“And… there. You are done, my dear!” The makeup artist finishes with a final light dusting of something and steps back to let me look at myself in the mirror. “What do you think?”

For a second, I don’t quite recognize the woman looking back at me—which is saying something, because I’ve been sitting here watching her work for the better part of an hour.

The makeup artist has covered the pallor in my cheeks and done something to my eyes that makes them seem bigger, bringing out the blue tones in the gray of my irises. She’s also erased the dark circles under my eyes, making it look like I slept properly last night, which I very much did not. The woman in the mirror looks calm and luminous, almost like she’s actually ready for what’s about to happen today.

After I give her a nod of approval and thank her for her help, the makeup artist bustles out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. But the reprieve doesn’t last long. The suite door opens again less than five minutes later, and my mother and sister rush in, their faces alight with excitement. Behind them, more composed, is Adrian, the stylist who was hired to design my custom wedding gown.

“Oh my god!” Genevieve exclaims. “You look amazing.”

“Okay,” Adrian says briskly, “let’s get her into the dress. There may be some last-minute adjustments I need to make.”

The dress has been waiting in the corner of the room, hanging in a black garment bag in my periphery. I take a deep breath, nerves and anticipation intertwining as Adrian unzips the bag, letting the intricate folds of the gown spill onto the floor.

The gown is a breathtaking cascade of silk and lace, carefully designed to accentuate every curve. Adrian, with a practiced touch, helps me step into the dress. My sister and mother watch with adoring eyes, their joy infectious, even as a twinge of apprehension coils within me.