Page 29 of Kinks of a Billionaire
Chapter 13
Willow
As Royce and I made our way out toward the elevators, I couldn’t help but think back to the first time he came to my rescue. Except, I wasn’t a naive young girl anymore, and he shouldn’t have to save me.
But he did. As always, he’d had my back. He would never let anything happen to me.To us, I thought, placing a hand on my abdomen.
He turned to face me, and I arched my brow in question. “Is everything okay?”
Thick tension rolled off him, sucking all the air out of the elevator. His fists clenched and unclenched around the straps of my bag.
“I should be asking you that.” His chiseled face was so beautiful, and I feared I was too far gone. There was nothing platonic about my feelings for him. Maybe it was just a reaction to his fierce protectiveness. Or the way he always came through for me. “Did I scare you?”
I frowned at the odd question. How could he even think that? If my body wasn’t battered and in such pain, I would have triedto jump his bones. Royce’s eyes darkened like he could read my mind.
“No,” I finally answered. “Nothing about you scares me.”
Without a warning, he dropped the duffle bag and scooped me up into his arms.
“What—”
“You shouldn’t be on your feet—the doctor recommended as little strain as possible. I shouldn’t even have agreed to let you come,” he scolded. I shushed him and leaned into his chest. It was only nine in the morning, but the exhaustion in my bones signaled bedtime rather than a new day. “I sent a message to your parents.”
“What did you tell them?” I asked with uncertainty. I hadn’t told my parents about my pregnancy or my issues with Stuart. Although we were close, their Catholic beliefs often made our perspective on life different—being single and pregnant, for example.
“That you made me the happiest man on this planet by agreeing to marry me, not Stuart.”
My brows furrowed. “And what did they say?”
He flashed me that smirk that had women falling all over themselves for him. “No idea. I was a tad busy. But I’m sure they’ll show up at our wedding. They pulled me aside at the party yesterday and tasked me with finding out what was going on with you. They’re worried. They love you, Willow.”
I was still vague on the details, but his words put me at ease. Knowing Royce, he had a plan, and I’d go along with it because there was nowhere else I’d rather be than under his protection.
“Just so we’re clear…” A headache throbbed behind my temple, but I refused to let it ruin today. “I’m walking down the aisle when I marry you. Sham of a marriage or not.”
A ghost of a smile passed his expression just as the door slid open, and he picked the duffle bag up effortlessly without lettingme go, then stepped out into the lobby. The sun poured in from the windows and the space buzzed with life.
“It’s a deal, baby.”
Something grabbed my heart, and for the first time in weeks—months—it felt lighter.
“Why did you bribe the priest and then force him to come along?” I muttered under my breath as the bustle of Lisbon’s morning traffic converged into white noise in my mind. “What if he curses us or something?”
My pulse beat in my throat as Royce drove toward the same church my parents got married in. São Miguel, a Catholic church in the Alfama district of Lisbon, was one of the oldest parishes, famous for its gilded interior. It was my mother’s ancestors’ church.
Royce flicked a glance over his shoulder at the glaring priest in the back seat as he zigzagged through traffic. “He won’t. Right, Father Miguel?”
Father Miguel was in the lobby when we exited the elevators. Royce being Royce attempted to bribe Father Miguel, but little did he know the man was the epitome of morals and scruples. The clerical suit and white collar seemed obvious to me, but what did I know?
Needless to say, the man promptly admonished Royce in Portuguese, then proceeded to shove the bills back in his hands. He then attempted to yank me from Royce’s muscled arms, shouting about violence and the sanctity of marriage and other such hysterics. In the commotion of the three of us speaking at the same time—me insisting it wasn’t Royce who’d marked myface, Royce apologizing for the bribery, and Father threatening to call the police—we drew the entire lobby’s attention.
I insisted Royce put me down so I could talk to Father Miguel in peace. He obliged, but then seemed to make a split-second decision and proceeded to throw Father Miguel over his shoulder and bolt out of the lobby and into our vehicle.
“Kidnapping is a sin,” was Father’s response. “And hitting a woman is a sin too.”
“Father, it wasn’t Royce,” I jumped in to defend him, taking Royce’s hand in mine. “He saved me.” The priest’s pitying eyes narrowed on me like I was delusional, and I couldn’t help letting out an exasperated breath. “I promise. It was Stuart, the man who insisted we get married at the hotel and not in the church.” Then, because I was sure I was going to hell anyhow, I added, “Stuart is a nonbeliever, but not Royce. He’s a Catholic. It’s what it took to finally see that we belonged together—our common faith.”
Royce choked, stifling a laugh, and I shot him a glare, silencing him. In Father Miguel’s eyes, it was enough, because he seemed to warm to the idea a little.
