Page 21 of First Comes Marriage

Scowling at his phone, he clicked the link to Sabrina’s Instagram page and was immediately hit with a wall of photographs of the two of them from the night before. It started with an innocent-enough photo of her perched on his lap, #Reunited. The next one showed her kissing his neck, #StartingOver. In the next, they were kissing, his fingers twined in her hair and her hand wrapped around his wrist, #HeatingUp. Photo after photo of them, each one bringing back flashes of the night before, fuzzy and muted.

Their clasped hands, #BetterTogether.

A blurry selfie on the sidewalk outside the hotel, his arm looped around her neck and lips pressed to her temple, #CoupleGoals.

His hand on her thigh, right above her knee, his pinkie disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt, #Scandalous.

Then a series of photos that had obviously been taken by somebody else: Sabrina wrapped in his arms, her head thrown back in laughter and his hands low on her back, tugging her towards him, his eyes focused on her, #NewBeginnings.

Another one of them kissing, this time accompanied by a bundle of fake, faded flowers in Sabrina’s hand, #Perfect.

It was the last photo that made him nearly drop his phone.

Sabrina’s hand in his, his lips brushing her knuckles, and shiny gold bands on both of their left hands, #HusbandMaterial.

What the fuck?

He glanced down at his left hand. Why the fuck was he wearing a wedding ring?

He sank down onto the couch, digging his hand into his hair.

Holy shit.

He had married Sabrina.

Baz:Who else knows?

Ethan:That’s the first thing you say to us? You got married without any of us there!

Jamie:Who else knows? Anyone with an Instagram account, that’s who!

Gavin:I’m guessing that means we aren’t supposed to be congratulating you.

Jamie:I thought you hated Sabrina.

Gavin:Doesn’t look like he hates her anymore.

“Hey.”

Baz slid his phone into his pocket and shot to his feet, his eyes locked on Sabrina as she stretched and turned her sleepygaze on him.

“What time is it?” she asked.

He dug his hands into his pockets and glanced at the clock. “A little after seven.”

She blinked away the last bits of sleep from her eyes and stifled a yawn behind her hand. She froze, her eyes going wide, and slowly pulled her hand away from her mouth, her gaze locked on the gold band around her finger.

“Sebastian? Why am I wearing a wedding ring?”

He held up his own left hand. “Probably the same reason I am.”

She leapt out of bed and was at his side in a second, taking his hand in hers and holding it in front of her face. “Why areyouwearing a wedding ring?”

He stared at her, at the sleep-rumpled cloud of auburn hair and the soft pillow lines along her cheek, the freckles over the bridge of her nose and across her clavicle, the creamy skin visible through the opening in her robe, daring him to look at her in a way he had no right to. Even if he had married her.

She met his gaze with a wide-eyed look. “We gotmarried?”

He gave her a tight nod and tried to ignore the lick of hurt at her disbelief, but that incredulous look had released something wild in his chest. Some primal urge to show her how it would be if they were really married, to make her his in truth and not just in name.

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