Page 6 of Bride Bargain

“I got us something,” Elliot says behind me, his voice deep and rumbling as it breaks the silence. The refrigerator door swings open, and as I turn, he slides a small plate from the top shelf.

“Oh.” I set my glass of water down on the counter with a soft clink. Despite all that water, my throat is suddenly dry, because on that china plate is a tiny wedding cake. An intricate tiered masterpiece for two, with chocolate icing and sugar-dusted berries and even two tiny figurines of a bride and groom.

“It’s tradition,” Elliot says, nudging the refrigerator door closed. He’s all business as he squares up to me, like he’s about to rubber stamp some paperwork rather than mess with my psyche.

I stifle a burp. Guess I drank too much water too fast, but this evening has already been one life-rocking experience after another, and right now I’m too shell-shocked to care about burping in front of my boss.

In front ofElliot.

My best friend since high school. The man who hired me on day one for his company, claiming I was essential to his success. The man who featured in every single one of my daydreams about my wedding night, but not like this. Never like this.

Not cool and polite, keeping a careful distance between us in this silent kitchen. His dark hair is barely ruffled by the rooftop breeze, and his navy blue eyes are steady and calm.

In my daydreams, Elliot Ramsay tosses me over his shoulder and marches me to the bedroom, only emerging hours later for snacks and hydration. The wild-eyed Elliot of my dreams rips this wedding gown off my body with his teeth.

“The bride and groom feed each other wedding cake,” my calm boss says now, so matter of fact. “I read it online.”

They do a lot of other things to each other too, but whatever. I’ll play along.

Elliot holds out the plate, both eyebrows raised. Fighting a wild impulse to laugh, I pick up the tiny wedding cake, holding it gingerly in one hand.

It’s so small.So delicate and pretty. Whichever master baker made this tiny three-tiered masterpiece deserves their own TV show, because it somehow looks like a work of artanddelicious as hell.

“Lean down a little,” I rasp, holding up the cake, because without the heels I kicked off ten minutes ago, Elliot looms far, far above me.

Expressionless, my boss brings his face closer to mine. My heart thuds painfully, knocking against my rib cage as my body remembers that almost-kiss on the rooftop, the hot tickle of his breath as Elliot kissed his own knuckles, the wall of heat of his body so nearly pressed to mine.

And—

I don’t know what comes over me. It’s like I really am some horror movie ghost, possessed by a wicked spirit, because I don’t feed poor Elliot a neat bite of wedding cake. Oh, no: my arm acts independent of my brain, lunging up to smush cake and icing all over my bridegroom’s chin. He lets out a shocked yell, staggering back, and I swear it’s the most emotion he’s shown all evening.

The little figurines of us clatter to the tiles. A glob of chocolate icing drips off Elliot’s face onto his white shirt. My best friend gapes at me, betrayed.

“That part is tradition too,” I say weakly, even as white static crackles in my brain. Can’t believe I just did that. Elliot Ramsay abhors mess. Am I about to get married, fired, and friend-dumped all in one night? “We’re supposed to smush cake all over each other’s faces and ruin our fancy, expensive clothes.”

Elliot shakes his head slowly, hands fisting and flexing at his sides. He’s stopped looking at me altogether, staring up at the ceiling instead. His chest rises and falls as he breathes rapidly, and his voice is ragged as he says, “I will never understand people. Never.”

Ah, crap. My stomach sinks, guilt sloshing low in my belly, because I really should know better.

I’m a terrible best friend.

“Is the cake nice, at least?” Hey, maybe there’s a silver lining here. Taking my groom’s elbow, I tug him gently toward the sink and prop him against the counter.

To my shock, Elliot’s tongue snakes out to lick a chunk of chocolate wedding cake off his cheek. He huffs out a pained sigh and nods. “Delicious.”

Oh well.

The mushed ruin of our wedding cake goes back on the plate, set on the counter where I don’t need to look at the evidence of my evilness. Elliot is silent as I run the faucet, wetting a cloth. Seriously, what was I thinking?

“Hey.” Elliot catches my wrist as I reach up to dab his face, stilling the cloth between our bodies. Those dark blue eyes are suddenly back on mine, peering into the depths of my tragic little soul. It should be funny to see such a serious man covered in cake, but this is so far from the wedding night I always dreamed of that I’m feeling kind of weepy. “Wait. You don’t want to try it?”

“Try what?” I raise an eyebrow. “Are you offering a revenge cake-smush?”

Elliot’s mouth twitches, the threatened smile disturbing another chunk of chocolate icing. It lands on his white shirt with a splat, joining the other globs marooned on his magnificent chest.

I mean, I’d eatthosebits. I’d eat them right off him—preferably off his bare abs, which I happen to know are ridged and magazine-worthy.

The kitchen lights shimmer all around us, and I clear my throat. What were we talking about?

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