Page 4 of Her Kensington
2
Summer
I hopedthat looking at the photographs would help trigger some memories of last night, but other than the chapel and the registrar looking familiar, it doesn’t really help.
Staring down at my wedding band, excitement and anxiety duel in my stomach. I can’t believe I’m a wife—or more so that Harrison’s my husband. This time yesterday I was miserable because he’d left, and now I’m sitting here a newlywed. We’ve got so much that needs to be discussed. He’s mentioned moving to London more than once already, but can I really just pack up my life and move halfway around the world at the drop of a hat? I may not have been of sound mind last night, but I know I made the right decision. Harrison has lodged himself deep in my heart. He’s been there since the moment I bumped into him in the LBD, I just didn’t realise it at the time.
“Shit.” Reality comes crashing down and dread sits heavier in my stomach.
“What’s wrong?”
“My job.”
“I’ve sorted Max out. You don’t need to go back there.”
“Really? He was happy with that?”
“He was once I paid him for your time.”
“He made you pay him?”
“He’s a real arsehole. But you’re free now.”
Panic bubbles up as everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours really starts to settle in. “But I need that job, Harrison. I need money.”
“Summer, calm down,” he soothes when I start to hyperventilate. His hand sneaks around to the back of my neck and he massages my tense muscles until I begin to relax. “You don’t need that job. And if it’s money you’re worried about, I’ve got that covered—”
“I’m not sponging off you just because you’re my husband.” I can’t help that my lips twitch up into a small smile as I say the word. “I need a job. I need money. There are things I want to do with my life…Your family business has nothing to do with me; I didn’t marry you for your money.”
“I know you didn’t, you married me because you were drunk,” he says with a laugh, but I don’t join in. Our wedding shouldn’t be a joke, and I hate that’s what I’ve turned it into. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, returning to the issue at hand. He gets up and walks over to his case, rummaging inside. “Here.”
“What’s this?” I ask, unfolding what seems to be a chain of emails. My eyes flick over the words but I don’t understand what I’m reading.
“An offer for some of your art.”
“What?” My brows draw together. When I find a figure amongst the text, I can’t help but balk. “How much?”
“I told you, your art is good enough to sell.”
“That’s crazy, Harrison,” I say, dropping the paper to the coffee table and walking to the other side of the room. “They’re just quick sketches. They’re not worth that.”
“Art is only worth what someone is willing to pay. I didn’t put a price to them; that’s what they’re offering just from seeing the photos I took.”
“It’s insane,” I say, still pacing the room.
“Maybe so,” he says, grasping my upper arms and making me stop in front of him. “But talent is priceless, Summer.” He drops a kiss to the tip of my nose and my stomach does somersaults. No one’s ever supported my desire to be an artist. Everyone’s always told me I’ll never make any money or be successful, but he gets it. No, he doesn’t just get it—he has the same passion for it. “I want to give you everything, beautiful. Make all your dreams come true. There are some incredible places to study in London, if that’s what you want.”
A lump forms in my throat and tears sting my eyes as I look at the sincerity oozing from his. He really means that. My anxiety settles a little the longer I stare at him.
“Thank you,” I whisper around the lump, but it hardly seems enough for what he’s offering.
“Now get dressed. We’ve got a wedding to relive.”
Running my hand over the ivory satin of the wedding dress I apparently picked for last night, tiny pieces of what happened start to surface. The memory of suggesting we get married is there along with standing at a desk—I guess in the chapel—and then waiting. As happy as I am that little bits seem to be becoming clearer, it’s nothing like being able to remember every single part of saying ‘I do’ to the incredible man who’s currently watching me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
The gown is really simple, exactly like something I would choose sober, but the weight of the fabric tells me it’s anything but a cheap last-minute, off the rack number.
“You’re going to wear that again for me one day,” I hear from over my shoulder. Turning to look at him, I notice his eyes are once again dark and full of heat. “I’ll have another chance to peel that from your body like I intended to last night.”
