2. Elliot
Two
Elliot
I n nearly thirty years of life, I’ve never considered what my wedding might be like. Partly because my brain has always been full of other things—theories and experiments and tech —and partly because there’s only one woman I’d ever want to marry.
Claire Montgomery: the angel of my high school math class, my best and only true friend, and now my ruthlessly efficient PA. Obviously her. The thought of marrying anyone else is repellent.
But Claire has never liked me that way, so it always seemed like a waste of good brain-space to dwell on what might have been. Why torture myself like that? I’m confident, though, that if I had spent some angsty teenage hours daydreaming about our wedding, this is not what I would have pictured.
Claire is in a white wedding gown, plucking self-consciously at the fabric as it cascades over the dips and swells of her body. Her blonde hair is woven into some elaborate updo that makes my fingers itch to pull it apart, and a professional photographer snaps endless pictures of the two of us as we stand beneath a floral arch.
The wind on the rooftop ruffles the photographer’s hair, while an officiant drones on and on, warning us that this ceremony is legal and binding. Obviously.
Meanwhile stars pulse high above and traffic snakes through the streets below. There’s no music. No crowd of well-wishers. Only the two official witnesses—a pair of baffled accountants from my company, happy to do this favor and receive a bonus in return for signing an NDA.
The officiant—a middle aged woman with heavily penciled eyebrows called Sandra—keeps squinting at Claire and I, like she’s waiting for us to declare this all a joke, but we are deadly serious.
Yes: I am marrying my assistant after only a few days’ preparation. I’m wedding my best friend, the girl I’ve loved silently for years, keeping my unrequited feelings for her hidden. What could go wrong?
Squeezing one hand into a fist, I push that question as far down into the depths of my brain as it will go, staring blithely at the officiant all the while.
For once, I’m sick of logic; tired of weighing out all the options and analyzing everything to death.
I want to do something reckless.
I want to marry Claire.
Sandra falters whenever she glances at me, but that’s fine. I’ve made a lifetime habit of accidentally setting people on edge, of trying and failing to meet social expectations, and there are much bigger things to worry about right now.
For example: beside me, Claire fidgets from foot to foot as the ceremony draws on. Why? Is she nervous? Having second thoughts? Does she need the bathroom? Or are those high heels hurting her feet?
Clearing my throat, I widen my eyes at Sandra, silently willing her to hurry things along. Better safe than sorry.
The officiant talks faster and raises her clipboard like a shield between us, and the huffed laugh from Claire is more soothing than I can say. The knot in my chest loosens by an inch, and I step a fraction closer to my bride.
Not close enough to touch. Never that.
But close enough to feel the heat of her bare arm next to my sleeve.
“Do you, Elliot Paxton Ramsay, take this woman…”
Sandra’s lipstick is brick red, and a tiny smudge has spread to her front left tooth. It takes every ounce of my will power to focus on her words, answering her questions robotically instead of just staring at that god awful smudge. Everything that is wrong and messy and disorderly in this universe comes down to that smear of brick red, and if I was still a kid without a hold on my impulses, I’d be screaming right now.
My voice is rough. “I do.”
Claire shifts again by my side, but my neck is too stiff for me to look down at my bride and gauge her reaction. There’s a high pitched whining sound in the back of my brain, and my eyes are dry from staring at Sandra’s tooth, but I’m holding out, damn it.
Focus, you asshole.
If I miss this part, if I don’t commit Claire’s words to memory, I’ll always regret it. Even if this whole marriage is a PR stunt, it still counts. It has to.
“And do you, Claire Isabelle Montgomery, take this man…”
I go stiller than an ancient oak, rooted deep into the ground, as Sandra reels through the same questions again. Until—
Claire’s voice is so quiet, it’s almost snatched away by the breeze. “I do.”
My heart stutters, then starts up again at double pace.
The photographer’s camera clicks madly, and we turn to face each other on the rooftop. Tendrils of blonde hair have come loose from Claire’s updo, and they dance around her heart-shaped face. Her lips are parted, those pale green eyes staring up at me, and I can finally forget the lipstick smudge. There’s nothing but Claire.
Claire in a bridal gown, the fabric brushing against her legs as the breeze sweeps across this rooftop. Claire, swaying on her high heels like she might faint at any moment.
She looks shocked, startled by what we’ve done, by what we’re doing this very second as we slide rings onto each other’s fingers, my accountants clapping awkwardly in the background. The photographer circles us, shutter clicking, and Claire’s hand is cold in mine. When was the last time we touched this much? Months ago? Years?
The reason I’ve kept such a careful distance presents itself as Claire’s hand lingers in mine: the prickling sensation that spreads from her skin to mine, traveling through my fingers, my palm, my wrist, my forearm, all the way to my thudding chest where it explodes like a firework.
Christ.
Gritting my teeth, I fight to keep my expression blank and my grip loose and casual. Soon, the photographer will be gone and everyone else will leave too, and I can take an ice cold shower to scrub these sensations away. These urges.
They’re familiar, crawling up my spine and over my skin, boiling in my blood and pushing me to take her, kiss her, claim her. To rub away every trace of another person’s touch on Claire’s body, leaving only my scent, my teeth marks, my sweat.
Unhinged, I know. This is why we haven’t touched in years.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Sandra says, though she’s clearly not so sure it’s a good idea. The clipboard wobbles in her hand. “You may kiss the bride.”
Claire’s breath hitches, like she wasn’t expecting this part, but surely she knew it was coming? Good lord, I’ve thought of little else. But here she is, a faint blush staining her cheeks, looking so lost and nervous and unsure.
Does Claire want a kiss from me? Maybe not. Maybe that’s a step too far, even in this ridiculous scenario.
Disappointment spreads like acid through my chest, burning and corrosive, but I ignore it. I’m used to ignoring it, and my priority remains the same as it always has been: I will never, ever make Claire Montgomery uncomfortable. I’d rather die.
So: she doesn’t want a kiss from me.
But it’s time to kiss the bride.
This is our current conundrum.
Well, no matter. There is a simple solution. I may have spent my teenage years buried in algebra and code rather than flinging popcorn at the movie theater, but even I know that trick actors use to feign a kiss. When I cup Claire’s cheeks with both hands, she makes a soft noise, her breaths coming faster. Her heels scuff against the stone rooftop, and she grabs the sides of my suit jacket for balance.
“Elliot,” she whispers, panic threading through that single word.
“I’ve got you,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
Our kiss is brief, maddening, and will torture me to the day I die. The worst part of all? Our lips never brush, because I kiss my own knuckles.
As the camera clicks and the accountants clap our big moment, Claire stiffens against me, then sags with relief. When we pull apart, she offers a pained smile.
“Are you cold?” I ask, all business again. It’s an unseasonably warm night, but this is a windy rooftop and Claire’s wedding dress has no sleeves. Goosebumps have risen on her arms under the starlight, and a ridiculous part of me wants to lick them away. To get her alone and warm her up with my breath.
My assistant shrugs. “A little.”
I turn and nod at Sandra, the photographer, and the two accountants. Our paltry excuse for a wedding party. “We’re done here.”
“Thank you,” Claire adds, jabbing my ribs with her elbow.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, even though these people truly did the bare minimum required and don’t especially deserve our praise. Especially Sandra with that lipstick stain. That woman should be arrested. “This is the happiest day of our lives.”
One of the accountants turns a startled laugh into a cough, and even Claire snorts. “Come on,” she says, voice lowered just for me. “We’ve put on enough of a show.”
“Enjoy the wedding night,” the photographer calls as we stride away, and though my pace falters, I force myself to keep walking rather than smack the expensive camera out of his hands. His tone is jovial rather than mocking, and Claire laughs and waves at him as she leaves.
Jealousy crowds my throat, and I yank the rooftop door open with a muted growl, holding it wide for her. Her scent tickles my nose as she walks past, and I suck down a greedy lungful before glaring at the photographer and slamming the door behind us.
There may be no traditional wedding night for us, but Claire is my wife now. For better or worse, she let me slide that ring on her finger.
I’m officially hers.
Jesus Christ.