Page 4 of Bride Bargain

Yes: I am marrying my assistant after only a few days’ preparation. I’m wedding my best friend, the girl I’ve loved silently for years, keeping my unrequited feelings for her hidden. What could go wrong?

Squeezing one hand into a fist, I push that question as far down into the depths of my brain as it will go, staring blithely at the officiant all the while.

For once, I’m sick of logic; tired of weighing out all the options and analyzing everything to death.

I want to do something reckless.

I want to marry Claire.

Sandra falters whenever she glances at me, but that’s fine. I’ve made a lifetime habit of accidentally setting people on edge, of trying and failing to meet social expectations, and there are much bigger things to worry about right now.

For example: beside me, Claire fidgets from foot to foot as the ceremony draws on. Why? Is she nervous? Having second thoughts? Does she need the bathroom? Or are those high heels hurting her feet?

Clearing my throat, I widen my eyes at Sandra, silently willing her to hurry things along. Better safe than sorry.

The officiant talks faster and raises her clipboard like a shield between us, and the huffed laugh from Claire is more soothing than I can say. The knot in my chest loosens by an inch, and I step a fraction closer to my bride.

Not close enough to touch. Never that.

But close enough to feel the heat of her bare arm next to my sleeve.

“Do you, Elliot Paxton Ramsay, take this woman…”

Sandra’s lipstick is brick red, and a tiny smudge has spread to her front left tooth. It takes every ounce of my will power to focus on her words, answering her questions robotically instead of just staring at that god awful smudge. Everything that is wrong and messy and disorderly in this universe comes down to that smear of brick red, and if I was still a kid without a hold on my impulses, I’d be screaming right now.

My voice is rough. “I do.”

Claire shifts again by my side, but my neck is too stiff for me to look down at my bride and gauge her reaction. There’s a high pitched whining sound in the back of my brain, and my eyes are dry from staring at Sandra’s tooth, but I’m holding out, damn it.

Focus, you asshole.

If I miss this part, if I don’t commit Claire’s words to memory, I’ll always regret it. Even if this whole marriage is a PR stunt, it still counts. It has to.

“And do you, Claire Isabelle Montgomery, take this man…”

I go stiller than an ancient oak, rooted deep into the ground, as Sandra reels through the same questions again. Until—

Claire’s voice is so quiet, it’s almost snatched away by the breeze. “I do.”

My heart stutters, then starts up again at double pace.

The photographer’s camera clicks madly, and we turn to face each other on the rooftop. Tendrils of blonde hair have come loose from Claire’s updo, and they dance around her heart-shaped face. Her lips are parted, those pale green eyes staring up at me, and I canfinallyforget the lipstick smudge. There’s nothing but Claire.

Claire in a bridal gown, the fabric brushing against her legs as the breeze sweeps across this rooftop. Claire, swaying on her high heels like she might faint at any moment.

She looks shocked, startled by what we’ve done, by what we’redoingthis very second as we slide rings onto each other’s fingers, my accountants clapping awkwardly in the background. The photographer circles us, shutter clicking, and Claire’s hand is cold in mine. When was the last time we touched this much? Months ago? Years?

The reason I’ve kept such a careful distance presents itself as Claire’s hand lingers in mine: the prickling sensation that spreads from her skin to mine, traveling through my fingers, my palm, my wrist, my forearm, all the way to my thudding chest where it explodes like a firework.

Christ.

Gritting my teeth, I fight to keep my expression blank and my grip loose and casual. Soon, the photographer will be gone and everyone else will leave too, and I can take an ice cold shower to scrub these sensations away. Theseurges.

They’re familiar, crawling up my spine and over my skin, boiling in my blood and pushing me totake her, kiss her, claim her.To rub away every trace of another person’s touch on Claire’s body, leaving only my scent, my teeth marks, my sweat.

Unhinged, I know.Thisis why we haven’t touched in years.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Sandra says, though she’s clearly not so sure it’s a good idea. The clipboard wobbles in her hand. “You may kiss the bride.”

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