Page 59 of One Wealthy Wedding

“Do you really want to know?”

My hand tightens on her waist as we sway. “I do. And I hope dancing lessons are on there, because you’re not very good. You’ve stepped on my foot twice.”

She stiffens. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Tell me about the list.” I smooth my hand down her back, soothing her.

“It’s silly.” She sighs. “Lots of stuff. Staying out all night, getting my palm read at one of these really seedy places downtown, dancing on a table, learning to drive.”

“Right. You said that you didn’t know how. And I said it was because you’ve been driven around your whole life.” I look down at her instead of the crowd on the dance floor. Her face gives nothing away. All I see are thick, sooty lashes, that impossibly alluring freckle, her smooth, pale skin. “I’m sorry,” I say softly, “Cat.”

She looks up. Her eyes are sad, and my insides twist. I don’t know the whole story, but I do know I was being a jerk. Even if she’s probably exaggerating the memory in her head. After all, she was a teenager at the time, and nothing if not dramatic.

“All good,” she says with a shake of her head.

“All right, so what about the really crazy stuff? You must have some of that on the list.”

She smiles. “Sure. I have stuff I’ll never do. Visit Antarctica as ethically as possible. Oh, travel solo is on there. That I’ll do. There’s nothing too crazy.” Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she considers.

“Boring.”

“Do not make fun of the list, Theo.”

“What about skydiving and the bungee jumping?”

She shakes her head.

“Speed boat racing? Jell-O wrestling?”

Another shake, but this time, her eyes are lit up with amusement.

“Threesomes? Ah. No. Good, you’re ambitious. Foursomes, then.”

“Stop.” She gasps a laugh. “We don’t need you getting turned on again and making a spectacle.”

“I never make a spectacle.”

She levels me a look. “Really, Theo.”

“Just a little bit of a spectacle.” I wink at her, and she laughs again, and fuck if I don’t love being the one to make her. Because we’re selling this. I know we look like we’re in love. The dancing, the way Cat is smiling up at me, the way I keep touching her.

Her gaze goes distant, and her face falls.

“Don’t look now, but my father just walked in the door.” There’s a distinct note of panic in her voice. Her eyes slice to mine. “Theo, please. We have to make this believable. If he doesn’t believe me, he’ll think he can break us up. And I’ll never get the inheritance. Or he’ll challenge it in court as a sham marriage.”

Her hands tighten on my jacket. Why is she so scared?

She hates him. Unease settles over me. She hates him a whole lot if the way her pulse is pounding under my hand is any indication. Gregory Peterson is a miserable prick. I hate him too, but I’m not his only daughter.

“Okay.” I tip her chin up with one hand. “Eyes on me.” I rub my thumb over her plush bottom lip, and it gives under the pressure. Her eyes go heavy-lidded. Anticipation swirls, and I let it build until each breath feels charged. When I dip my head and finally brush my mouth over hers, she lets out a gasp and clutches at my jacket. I do it again and capture the sound she makes with my mouth. At twenty-one, I kissed Cat in the rain, and I felt like I might die. Even her untutored, eager kisses were like a drug to me. This is our third kiss ever, after the awkwardness at our wedding, and it’s like a lightning strike to the chest.

We’re not dancing anymore. Instead, I’m holding her up and breathing her in and licking at the seam of her lips until she opens for me. Our tongues tangle, and the hot, needy stroke of hers against mine makes me want to roar in triumph. Her hands clutch at my lapels. I pull her closer, closer, trying to drown myself in the way she tastes. In the back of my mind, I dimly wonder if we’re making fools of ourselves. I can’t find it in me to care, but Cat must, because she pulls away and stares at me. Her eyes are starry, and her lips glisten. She’s so pretty. So unbearably pretty. I want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her out of here, but instead, I cup her jaw.

“Do you think he believed us?” she asks.

“Most definitely.” I stroke a finger along the silky skin of her throat. “Catherine. You hate your father, don’t you?”

She swallows hard. “Yes,” she whispers.

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