Chapter 4
chapter
four
Mike
There’s a fine line between excitement and nervousness.
On one hand, you’ve got the rampant fluttering, the proverbial butterflies in the stomach.
On the other, you have the swooping plummets of your gut that make you wonder if your breakfast taco was a little off.
Right now, I’ve got a strange mixture of the two.
So I’m not sure if I’m apprehensive or looking forward to what’s about to happen.
I do know that I’ve stood in front of investors with billions on the line and felt steadier than I do now.
With my last-minute business trip, I hadn’t had a lot of time to think about my impending nuptials. So it never even occurred to me that I could want my temporary wife. If I’d had a moment to think about it, I know desire would not have been part of the plan.
This was supposed to be a favor. A contract. A solution.
It seemed easy in the limousine on the way here when she was signing the pre-nuptial agreement.
She’d made some quip about the authenticity of everything, but had signed her name.
But as she comes to stand across from me, her gaze flicking up to meet mine, I realize I’m acutely aware of her. The curve of her waist beneath the dress. The way her lips part slightly as if she’s smiling at a private joke. The quiet confidence in the way she holds herself.
“Too bad the officiant isn’t an Elvis impersonator,” she says. She grins and then winks.
I give her hand a squeeze. “We can always get married again with Elvis later if you feel the need.”
“Deal,” she says.
The woman standing off to our right, clipboard in hand, and equipped with one of those old-school headset things, gives me a nod. “You two are up.”
We walk, hand-in-hand, down the aisle to the older man. I’m pretty sure his suit might be older than I am, but it still fits him, so who am I to judge?
Pachelbel's Canon plays over the speakers as we take our place in front of the officiant. While the man speaks about the enduring power of love, I take in the sight of my bride.
I meant what I told her back in the hotel room. She’s lovely. Perfect in a way I didn’t expect. Perfect in every way, right down to the dress she chose.
When I asked my assistant to pick out some dress options for her, it never occurred to me that I would actually care which dress Evelyn picked. My assistant sent a series of images. I approved them mindlessly.
Yet, now that I see Evelyn standing in front of me in this dress, I know it’s the one I wanted her to pick.
It’s not one of the gowns dripping with Swarovski crystals and intricate lace.
Instead, she’s wearing something soft and almost whimsical.
She chose one of the more practical dresses I sent.
The bodice isn’t particularly low-cut, but it hugs her full breasts enough to accent that feature.
And admittedly, I’m a tit man. The skirt looks almost frothy and flares out at her waist, ending just at her knees.
Somehow, I just know that it suits her. Perfectly.
She doesn’t look like a woman being sacrificed to duty. She looks like someone stepping into something unexpected with her chin up and her eyes bright. There’s curiosity there. Amusement. A hint of nerves, the excited ones, not the ones full of apprehension.
I don’t know this woman, but in this moment, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Even if that doesn’t make any sense to my logical side.
The officiant is still talking about commitment and the power of partnership. I’ve heard versions of this before. Too many times, if I’m honest.
My father treated marriage like a revolving door. A ceremony, some vows, a honeymoon, and then—inevitably—another woman, another wedding, another set of promises spoken like they were reusable.
I always assumed the words were just that… words. Something to repeat, but not anything with true meaning.
But as I repeat them now, I realize how very wrong I’d been.
When I promise to have and to hold her from this day forward, for better, for worse, my words don’t feel casual. They feel heavy. Like something old and deliberate and binding.
When I promise to love her through sickness and in health, each word lands somewhere deep in my chest. Etching themselves into my very soul.
I stare into Evelyn’s gorgeous green eyes as I speak the vows. And then it’s her turn.
I swallow thickly. Nothing about this feels like a temporary arrangement. It feels like a promise.
Her vows come out solid and true as if she understands their weight, too.
The officiant smiles, clearly pleased with us. “By the power vested in me,” he says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
There it is.
“You may kiss the bride.”
I hesitate—just a fraction of a second longer than necessary—because I suddenly care how this goes.
Then I step forward, one hand coming to rest at her waist, the other cupping her cheek as I lean in.
Her breath hitches.
I close the distance between our lips.
The kiss is meant to be brief. Polite. Convincing enough to satisfy the room.
Instead, one brush of her soft lips and I’m a goner. I sweep my tongue inside her mouth, sliding against hers, and she whimpers in response.
When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright as she stares up at me.
Something settles in my chest then, solid and undeniable.
This marriage may have started as a solution.
But standing here, with my wife in her simple, perfect dress and the echo of those vows still ringing in my ears, I realize something quietly terrifying.
I don’t just want this arrangement to work.
I want her.
And I have no idea what I’m going to do about that.