Page 52 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

I pointed to him. “You need a suit.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so!” I chucked a shoe at him for good measure, but it soared wide. If he threw it back, he’d probably nail me in the chest. His aim was a lot better than mine.

He grunted and left the room, and I put on the special dress I had snuck out of the house.

When he came back, he stopped dead. “What is this?”

I snorted. I smoothed the old white fabric with my hands. I’d been a flower-girl only a few months ago. My dad’s cousin got married, and I was apparently the only one eligible to walk down the aisle and throw flowers.

“What does it look like?” I asked him.

He squinted at me, the tip of his tongue sliding out of his mouth with his concentration. And then he blinked. “We’re getting married?”

I grinned and waited. He’d either be in or out—with Caleb, you never knew. I figured this was a good way to solve my dilemma of how much he actually liked me.

You know: friend-like or marriage-like.

He straightened his tie and came closer. “I didn’t get you a ring.”

I shook my head and reached into my pocket.

“Got it covered,” I said, showing him the two pieces of braided string in my hand. I’d made one that was equal parts gold and blue, and the other was blue with a single thread of gold. It was annoying, having to try to make something so small it would fit around my finger, so I gave up and made bracelets. “We’re married until these fall off.”

That was how those types of bracelets worked: keep them on until they fall off, or it’s bad luck.

“Okay,” he agreed. “But…”

“What?”

“Do we have to kiss? To seal the deal?”

My eyebrows crinkled. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

He grinned and walked closer, holding the pants—his dad’s, I’d bet—so he didn’t trip on the hem. “We could, you know.”

“Kiss?”

“Adults do it.”

My heart raced. “Do they?”

Mom and Dad didn’t really kiss in front of me. They barely touched. Did Caleb’s parents kiss in front of him? I’d seen it on movies, but I thought it was just that: fiction.

I knew the definition of fiction at age eight. I wasn’t dumb.

Some things just weren’t real: Santa, parents who really loved each other, my future with Caleb.

He picked up both braided pieces, which I’d left untied, and fisted the one with more gold. “I want this one. It reminds me of you.”

And then he raised my left arm and tied the mostly blue one around my wrist. He left it loose enough that I could’ve inched it over my hand, but I didn’t. I slid it farther up, until it got stuck on my forearm. I didn’t want to lose it so quickly.

“Now me,” he said, shoving his bracelet at me.

I tied it with clumsy fingers, as loose as he had made mine. Who knew when these things would fall off? I suddenly wished I had made them out of steel.

“Kiss me, Wolfe,” he said. “Make it official.”

---