Page 228 of Overcast

I spentthe whole morning with Reagan—to her utter and excited state of mind with Marty and I getting married—having breakfast with me and gushing about my “dream wedding”.

Like I said, I’ve never thought about it much until Marty and I met.

Probably because I was always too worried about paying for classes, and which one of my dad’s friends was going to be over that night, it never was a dream that sat in the forefront of my brain.

When Reagan pulled out over a dozen magazines with gowns, venues, table decor, and DIY ideas, I was overwhelmed while she was over the moon. She flipped through the pages, pointing and explaining. I couldn’t keep up, noticing that nothing had a price tag on it, which I believed was how it sucked women in with just the pretty pictures.

I allowed Reagan to have this moment, though. Marty was her only brother. Her only chance to be able to plan something so close to her and I’d let everything sink in when I had two minutes to myself.

When I was finally able to get her to agree to give me a few days to look and think everything over, she asked if we could go shopping in a few days. I agreed, happy to spend some time with my soon to be sister-in-law and my new family.

Striding across the grassy front yard of Reagan’s house and through the small trail leading to Marty’s, the small stack of pamphlets weigh heavily in my hands.

I don’t want anything fancy or expensive, I just want Marty.

Everything in the magazines are materialistic and so pricey that I believe it to be a waste of money altogether.

Marty and I haven’t spoken much about when or where we’d finally tie the knot. He’s been too busy trying to get me into bed with him, but his leg has been bothering him. He didn’t get far with trying to convenience me that he’s ready to have sex.

He’s been a crank for days.

The same man who tended my wounds, Lucien, came to the house the other day. Dressed in jeans and a black plaid shirt, carrying his black leather bag and a bored expression on his face. He didn’t acknowledge me when I opened the door, just strode in, kissed Emmy on the cheek, and chided Mills for being an idiot.

When he left, leaving instructions—for Emmy—and some pills for his pain, I made sure to slam the door behind him as my silent, petty act. I’m aware I’m not part of their “group”, but I wasn’t going to be discarded either.

Those days are over.

Mills chuckled while Emmy wrapped her arm around my shoulder and told me to go see my man.

And I did.

He was silently sleeping, appearing innocent and peaceful with his jaw slack from a painless sleep. I wasn’t going to disturb him, but I didn’t mind staring at him. He was the most influential person in my life, and, as messed up as it sounds, his truths didn’t scare me anymore.

Opening up the front door and taking the stairs to my room, I open it to find it completely bare beside the furniture. My bed is neatly made, the curtains are drawn like they were this morning, the heavy dressers are still in place, but everything else is gone.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The rooted tone of Marty’s voice ripples up my spine in delighted anticipation that I don’t shyly remain still.

Instead, I now confidently pivot to find Marty standing in his door frame, arms crossed, and looking positively delicious in a white tee and gray sweats. His dark hair is a disheveled mess of sexy and sleepy while his hazel eyes don’t bother hiding the exploration of my body.

“My room,” I voice with a lifted brow. “Where is all my stuff?”

“In mine.” He moves, carefully limping on his good leg. “Where it belongs.”

“It’s here—” I jerk my head behind me. “—where I always—”

“See, that’s another thing I should’ve mentioned,” he professes, balancing his gaze on me. “I’m not keeping a separate bedroom from my wife. You’ll sleep with me. You’ll wake up with me. You’ll be pressed up against me where I can—”

“We’re not married yet,” I deadpan when he’s skyscraping over me, displaying nothing but determination on his features.

I love that look.

I writhe off it and the fact that I’m messing with him right now. He should be resting, but I already knew he wasn’t going to stay bed-ridden for more than a few days while he healed.

He’s too antsy.

Too moody.

“Keyword ‘yet’ and, sweetheart, if that’s what it takes for you to sleep beside me tonight, we’ll get married right the fuck now.”

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