Page 4 of Never Say Yes To Your Boss

Bradford doesn’t take my hand. He doesn’t touch me, but his smile stays in place, and his eyes are warm and kind, and I tell myself that’s enough. That it will be enough for me for these next months. I’m trusting this man with my body, my soul, and my life.

His right hand moves in a small gesture, but the priest sees it and joins us. He’s all ancient and weathered in white robes that give off a slightly musty smell, but while his voice is monotonous and I can’t hear what he’s saying because I’m a wreck inside, I don’t feel like he’s a threat. He’s not unkind. The poor man is just here to marry us, that’s all.

To him, we’re just two people in love. Bradford with his two-thousand-dollar bespoke suit and his million-dollar smile and me with my swept-up hair, my grandma’s locket, my mom’s pearls, and the twenty-two-dollar dress I used to feel so pretty in. Yeah, me…with my soul bared, my heart stopped, and my life spiraling out of control.

Bradford finally reaches out and takes my hands in his, and they’re warm and reassuring and right. I nearly die when his skin touches mine. I never dreamed that he’d touch me for real. My heart thrums madly, and now it’s not fear. It’s anticipation. This might be wrong, and I still might want to run, but I’m going to stick it out and do it because my family needs me to do it. I’m buying our survival and our freedom.

My thoughts are scrambled, but Bradford’s touch grounds me. His warmth becomes my warmth, and I imagine I can feel the echo of his heart in the pulse at his wrist, where my index finger hovers.

“Bradford Anderson, do you take Everleigh Rushdale to be your wife…”

Oh good, he already gave the priest my name.

There’s more, and then he says yes, so confidently, like this is real and we’re in love, or we’re going to be, and everything is going to be fine. It gives me the courage to say yes even though I want to say fuck this and bolt, despite the fact that we’re in a church, and swearing would probably ensure eternal damnation.

Instead, I’m standing here and saying yes when it’s my turn.

It’s over before I really register it happening. Bradford slips two rings on my finger: an engagement ring with a pear-shaped diamond that looks very antique and a second gold band with scrollwork that matches—a set.

The priest finishes up, and then I sign the paperwork. Bradford already signed, which seems weird, but then again,he’s very organized, and he was here before me, so maybe he was just killing time.

“Go in peace,” the priest wishes us. And then he leaves. He just freaking walks right out the front through some ornate door I didn’t see before. He’s gone, and it’s just us, and now we’re married. My boss is now my husband.

I turn to Bradford, my heart hammering and blood rushing in my ears. “Now what?”

“Do you have your phone?”

“I…uh…yeah.” I brought a clutch with me, and it’s still hanging off my right wrist. I wasn’t even aware of it before.

I had put my phone on silent. But there are no missed calls or texts. My mom and sister are the only ones who know I’m here, and they tried to stop me. They tried all week to talk me out of it. When they couldn’t, they accepted that this was my decision. They didn’t second guess me or try to call me on my way to the church or while I was getting married.

“Check your bank account. The money was wired five minutes ago.”

I opened my bank app and checked. I don’t look up. “By who?” Those words shake. Something isn’t right. Something is very, very wrong. And there. There it is. Fifty thousand dollars added to my balance, bringing it up to fifty thousand one hundred and four dollars. The magnitude of those numbers makes me feel sick. I wonder if hurling right here on this fancy carpet would be acceptable. No, probably not. It’s probably also an eternally damnable sin.

“If you play your cards right, you won’t ever have to work again,” Bradford says softly, but there’s something smug and sinister about that.

My head snaps up, my fingers gripping my phone too hard.Play my cards right? Oh my god. What does that even mean?Does he think that’s what I really want?His face is neutral, but I swear what he just said was meant to mock me.

All of a sudden, the door at the back of the church bangs open before swinging shut, the echo reverberating throughout the place like that thunderstorm I thought about earlier. Who else is in here at eleven at night? In here with us? My head whips back so fast that I nearly give myself whiplash. My vision blurs, and my heart races. I feel like I’m back with the lions again. Not one. But two.

The black shadow from the back slowly, slowly emerges. He walks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He saunters but with a strong, powerful gait that eats up the aisle. He passes pews, and he’s moving so fast now that they seem to be moving too—a trick. Something like being in a car that’s standing still and then seeing one move beside you and feeling like you’re moving. I edge closer to Bradford as though he could save me, protect me, and explain what this stranger, clad entirely in black with raven dark hair, black eyes, and the bone structure of the devil himself—however blasphemous that might be, given where I’m standing—is doing here. And also why he’s stopping just a few feet away from us, clenching his hands at his side, and getting that dashing tick in his jaw that only handsome men can pull off.

In the sexy church mood lighting, which probably isn’t a correct turn of phrase at all, this guy is all shadows and hard angles, but under different, warmer lighting, his hair is probably auburn or chestnut instead of black. Or it’s some other token word for brown. But that’s not important. What’s important is why he’s here and why he’s looking at me like that. Well, actually, looking at us like that. Like a great travesty just occurred here, and some wretched crime was committed.Please don’t let me be going to jail for this already. This isn’t how the fairy tale is supposed to go.

There is something off about this guy’s eyes, and it’s not just the intensity of his feral stare. His pupils are huge. Bradford’s arm slips around my waist, steadying me, and I’m grateful for it. The magnitude of this stranger’s gaze could bowl anyone over. He’s the polar opposite of Bradford’s blonde, light, and angelic looks, and yet…the angles and features, well, they’re quite…similar.

“Darling,” Bradford drawls in a bored tone, his hand clenching my waist, not protectively, no, but to keep me from running. I want to wrench it away. I want to get as far away from him as I possibly can. Foreboding crashes over me, and my blood rushes through my veins, thick and heated with adrenaline. “I’d like you to meet Bradford Anderson. Your husband.”

I know nothing about defending myself physically, but it’s second nature to slam my foot down on Bradford’s square-toed leather shoe and elbow him in the ribs. Unfortunately, I’m about as effective as a mosquito, and he swats me away and tightens his arm all at once, pulling me against him.

“What the hell are you talking about?You’remy husband!” Okay, so I’m out of control. That was pretty much a shriek, but how can I be composed when the man I just married pointed to a damn stranger, gave him his name, and called him my husband?

My stomach rolls painfully, and I think I’m going to throw up. Bile surges up my throat, and I press my lips shut just to not barf on the church floor. I’m not in the right direction to aim for Bradford, but my god, I’d like to aim for him or not at all. No barfing unless I can ruin his suit and shoes. It’s a new law.

“No, sweetheart. That’s not the agreement. I stood in by proxy for my brother, which is allowed. The paperwork was signed by both of you, and it is all legal and binding. But where are my manners? All of this without a proper introduction.” His grin is lethal. Right now, he’s not the sweetheart, golden child thateveryone knows and loves. This isn’t the grin he gives when he shakes hands with business partners and colleagues.

This isn’t the Bradford I know. Is that even his name?My god, what is even happening right now?I’m speechless and frozen while he just keeps on talking, so I have no choice but to listen and process the terrible proof that I’ve just made a horrendous mistake.

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