Page 14 of The Accidental Honeymoon

A small crowd has started to gather at the edge of the square. I recognize a few faces: bakery customers, curious townies. Whispers ripple through them.

Personally? I feel the weight of a thousand judgmental eyes.

“Let’s go,” I whisper hoarsely, my heart sinking. “Quickly.”

We make our way down the steps of the gazebo. Jay puts a hand on my shoulder.

“You know,” he says. I brace for something awful. But he shocks me with, “We could just stay married. Save ourselves the shame of getting our quickie marriage annulled so soon.”

I stop in my tracks and stare at him, waiting for the punchline. He’s grinning, but there’s a tiredness in his eyes. He might be loopy.

“Are you insane?” I say. “Or did you hit your head while we were drunk?”

“It’d be easier than dealing with the fallout.” He shrugs, raising both hands.

I want to slap him. I want to laugh. I want to cry. Instead, I just shake my head and start walking again.

“Come on,” I mutter. “We’ll go to your house.”

The crowd parts as we cross the square. I can almost hear the rumor mill grinding to life. My mind races with thoughts of damage control, of how to explain this to my family, to the town, to myself.

One thing is clear: this is far from over.

five

JAY

“When I saidI wanted something else to wear, I didn’t meanslightly differentgym clothes,” Calla complains from my office.

I’m in the kitchen, shirtless, trying to decipher the French press instructions through a hangover haze. Calla trudges in, and I nearly burn myself on the kettle. She’s wearing one of my softest white T-shirts and a pair of soft gray sweatpants, both absurdly large on her petite, curvy frame. Her hair is a tousled mass of dark brown, to match perfectly with those piercing hazel eyes of hers. She looks vaguely like a kid playing dress-up in her dad’s clothes.

Or she would, except that I can see the hard nub of her nipples poking out of my T-shirt. She shifts and now I can see not only the outline of her breasts, but I’m fairly certain that I see the faint hint of areola…e. However you say that word.

Hotdamn.

I swallow and blink. Calla ishot. Not in the girl-next-door kind of way that I found her attractive before now.She’s a fuckingsiren. And she’s calling to me as she sits at my kitchen counter.

"I look ridiculous," she says, crossing her arms and glaring at me.

I chuckle, then wince as the sound ricochets in my skull. "You make them look good. It's a new fashion statement."

She snorts, an unladylike sound that I find oddly endearing. "I'm changing as soon as I get back to my house."

I pour us each a cup of coffee, black and steaming, and slide hers across the marble countertop. She eyes it warily, then takes a tentative sip. Her shoulders relax just a fraction.

"Why did we think this was a good idea?" she asks. She is pointedly not looking at me.

"The tequila thought for us," I say, rubbing my temples. "Look, Calla, I’m as shocked as you are. But maybe this isn’t the disaster it seems."

Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and disbelieving.

"You think it’s not a disaster that your wedding cake baker is now your wife? Do you not think that the whole-ass internet will have a field day with this news? I can see it now.” She waves her palms in the air to emphasize her point. “'Jay Rustin rebounds with girl he met only hours before’. Yeah, that’ll really help your brand."

I flinch, not at her words, but at the truth in them. My brand. The business. Everything I’ve built is precariously balanced on public perception. She’s right. This could topple it all.

"That's why we need a plan. Come on, Java Monkey is just a couple of blocks away. We can walk."

She looks down at her bare feet, then at my shoe collection neatly lined up by the door. "Got any shoes that would fit a kid?"

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