Page 59 of For The Weekend
“A beautiful swamp thing,” he says, and I snort-laugh.
“This swamp thing needs a drink.”
He takes my hand in his, and we follow the rest of the guests inside to the banquet hall, where I snag a glass of champagne. With our pictures already taken, my bridesmaid duties are essentially fulfilled, so Roman and I find our seats so we can watch the newlyweds enjoy their carefully choreographed first dance.
Leaning into my fake boyfriend’s side, I quietly tell him, “It’s going to be real laid-back when I get married.No first dances or assigned seats.” He angles his head so he can meet my gaze, though he stays quiet, and I go on. “It’ll be outside with comfort food, and there’ll be disposable cameras everywhere for everyone to take pictures. Nothing formal. I want the exact opposite.”
“Sounds like fun,” he says eventually. “Will I be invited?”
I shoot him my sassiest smirk. “Yes, but you have to bring a date.”
He huffs an amused sound and drapes his arm around my shoulders. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The reception is a blur of pleasantries and stilted conversations, most people not bothering to even approach us.
“I think you scared everyone away,” I tease, tracing the melting skulls and dark flowers that make up the sleeve of his tattoo that’s on display since he ditched his suit jacket during dinner and he rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows because he’s actively trying to kill me. Last night, he’d told me he’s had a lot of work redone because of “stupid shit” he had inked when he was younger. Including the portrait of SpongeBob, which he got one night while he was high. I laughed about that for five minutes straight.
He certainly doesn’t seem like someone who’d have a SpongeBob tattoo. What he does seem like is someone who might commit murder. And he’s proud of it. “Good. It’s working.”
“The mean mugging?”
He hits me with his mean mug, and I giggle. His features thaw, and he cups my cheek, brushing his thumb over my mouth. “You’re missing your pink.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Had to be demure today.”
“Fuck demure. I want you to be pink.”
“Between Mazie and me, you’re surrounded with it.”
“I don’t mind,” he says with a shrug, dragging his knucklesacross my jaw and down my throat, plucking at the neckline of my dress. “Pink might be my new favorite color.”
I feel the flush rise from my chest—his new favorite color—and with the way his pupils blaze with heat, I suddenly have a hard time breathing.
“You okay?” he asks, skimming his fingertips over the side of my breast, knowingexactlywhat he’s doing to me.
“Fine.” To put some room between us, I scoot my chair back. “But I want to dance.”
He doesn’t budge. “Dance?”
“Yeah.” I tug on his arm. “It’s a wedding. People dance at weddings.”
“I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Everyone can dance,” I say, pulling him toward the dance floor. “Just follow my lead.”
He grumbles a few curses but lets me drag him to the dance floor, where other couples sway to a slow song. I pull him close, wrapping my arms around his neck, and he hesitantly places his hands on my waist. I can feel the warmth of his palms even through the fabric of my dress, and I lean my head against his chest.
“See? This isn’t so bad,” I murmur.
He doesn’t reply, save for a kiss to my head, an answer all its own, and the song ends after, like, forty-seven seconds, moving right into Guns N’ Roses. I pout, but Roman’s already shaking his head. “That’s all you get from me, sunshine.”
“It wasn’t even a whole song.”
“More than anyone else has ever had.”
“Really?” I tip my head, curious. “You never danced at your own wedding or attended homecoming or something?”
“Do I look like I attended homecoming?” My laugh cuts off when he says, “And I was nevermarried.”
