3. Claire
Three
Claire
Y ou know, I’ve had nearly thirty years to picture my wedding night, but in all my idle daydreaming, I could never have predicted this. I’m standing barefoot in Elliot’s fancy open-plan kitchen, my wedding gown brushing the dark tiles, gulping at a glass of water like I’m trying to drown myself. The city lights glitter outside, spreading out in all directions, and I keep catching glimpses of my own reflection in the dark windows.
I look pale and small and spooky. Like the tormented ghost of a bride.
A bride. Holy crap, what have we done?
All around me, expensive kitchen appliances glitter from counter tops, while eclectic cookbooks squeeze together on shelves. A bushy basil plant scents the kitchen windowsill, and the room is lit by shafts of golden light. This whole penthouse is much warmer than the rooftop, but still… I can’t stop shivering.
Glass trembling in my hand, I smack on the faucet and refill it to the brim. With my arm outstretched, my new wedding ring winks at me from my finger.
A dazed laugh wheezes from my chest.
“I got us something,” Elliot says behind me, his voice deep and rumbling as it breaks the silence. The refrigerator door swings open, and as I turn, he slides a small plate from the top shelf.
“Oh.” I set my glass of water down on the counter with a soft clink. Despite all that water, my throat is suddenly dry, because on that china plate is a tiny wedding cake. An intricate tiered masterpiece for two, with chocolate icing and sugar-dusted berries and even two tiny figurines of a bride and groom.
“It’s tradition,” Elliot says, nudging the refrigerator door closed. He’s all business as he squares up to me, like he’s about to rubber stamp some paperwork rather than mess with my psyche.
I stifle a burp. Guess I drank too much water too fast, but this evening has already been one life-rocking experience after another, and right now I’m too shell-shocked to care about burping in front of my boss.
In front of Elliot.
My best friend since high school. The man who hired me on day one for his company, claiming I was essential to his success. The man who featured in every single one of my daydreams about my wedding night, but not like this. Never like this.
Not cool and polite, keeping a careful distance between us in this silent kitchen. His dark hair is barely ruffled by the rooftop breeze, and his navy blue eyes are steady and calm.
In my daydreams, Elliot Ramsay tosses me over his shoulder and marches me to the bedroom, only emerging hours later for snacks and hydration. The wild-eyed Elliot of my dreams rips this wedding gown off my body with his teeth.
“The bride and groom feed each other wedding cake,” my calm boss says now, so matter of fact. “I read it online.”
They do a lot of other things to each other too, but whatever. I’ll play along.
Elliot holds out the plate, both eyebrows raised. Fighting a wild impulse to laugh, I pick up the tiny wedding cake, holding it gingerly in one hand.
It’s so small . So delicate and pretty. Whichever master baker made this tiny three-tiered masterpiece deserves their own TV show, because it somehow looks like a work of art and delicious as hell.
“Lean down a little,” I rasp, holding up the cake, because without the heels I kicked off ten minutes ago, Elliot looms far, far above me.
Expressionless, my boss brings his face closer to mine. My heart thuds painfully, knocking against my rib cage as my body remembers that almost-kiss on the rooftop, the hot tickle of his breath as Elliot kissed his own knuckles, the wall of heat of his body so nearly pressed to mine.
And—
I don’t know what comes over me. It’s like I really am some horror movie ghost, possessed by a wicked spirit, because I don’t feed poor Elliot a neat bite of wedding cake. Oh, no: my arm acts independent of my brain, lunging up to smush cake and icing all over my bridegroom’s chin. He lets out a shocked yell, staggering back, and I swear it’s the most emotion he’s shown all evening.
The little figurines of us clatter to the tiles. A glob of chocolate icing drips off Elliot’s face onto his white shirt. My best friend gapes at me, betrayed.
“That part is tradition too,” I say weakly, even as white static crackles in my brain. Can’t believe I just did that. Elliot Ramsay abhors mess. Am I about to get married, fired, and friend-dumped all in one night? “We’re supposed to smush cake all over each other’s faces and ruin our fancy, expensive clothes.”
Elliot shakes his head slowly, hands fisting and flexing at his sides. He’s stopped looking at me altogether, staring up at the ceiling instead. His chest rises and falls as he breathes rapidly, and his voice is ragged as he says, “I will never understand people. Never.”
Ah, crap. My stomach sinks, guilt sloshing low in my belly, because I really should know better.
I’m a terrible best friend.
“Is the cake nice, at least?” Hey, maybe there’s a silver lining here. Taking my groom’s elbow, I tug him gently toward the sink and prop him against the counter.
To my shock, Elliot’s tongue snakes out to lick a chunk of chocolate wedding cake off his cheek. He huffs out a pained sigh and nods. “Delicious.”
Oh well.
The mushed ruin of our wedding cake goes back on the plate, set on the counter where I don’t need to look at the evidence of my evilness. Elliot is silent as I run the faucet, wetting a cloth. Seriously, what was I thinking?
“Hey.” Elliot catches my wrist as I reach up to dab his face, stilling the cloth between our bodies. Those dark blue eyes are suddenly back on mine, peering into the depths of my tragic little soul. It should be funny to see such a serious man covered in cake, but this is so far from the wedding night I always dreamed of that I’m feeling kind of weepy. “Wait. You don’t want to try it?”
“Try what?” I raise an eyebrow. “Are you offering a revenge cake-smush?”
Elliot’s mouth twitches, the threatened smile disturbing another chunk of chocolate icing. It lands on his white shirt with a splat, joining the other globs marooned on his magnificent chest.
I mean, I’d eat those bits. I’d eat them right off him—preferably off his bare abs, which I happen to know are ridged and magazine-worthy.
The kitchen lights shimmer all around us, and I clear my throat. What were we talking about?
Trying the cake. Right. The beautiful cake that Elliot bought us as a gift, and that I mashed into his mess-hating face in a moment of complete madness.
“I’m good,” I say, trying to sound confident and jovial and not at all like someone whose fragile world is crashing down around her ears. Getting married was supposed to fix a problem, not create a whole new one, damn it, but ever since Elliot slid that ring onto my finger, I’ve been knocked off balance.
My boss tuts and leans his face closer to mine again. “Come on, Claire. Try it.”
He’s goading me. The bastard’s actually goading me, his eyes sparking with challenge, and Elliot must be deadly determined if he’s allowing this mess to go on for longer than it needs to. Fine! This evening has already been weird enough. Why not add one more thing to obsess over for the next fifty years?
“You don’t mean this,” I say, tossing the cloth into the sink and placing both hands on Elliot’s shoulders for balance. One set of fingers is smeared with chocolate icing, but hey, this suit is already beyond help. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Ramsay.”
It’s Elliot’s first true smile of our wedding day, and like always, it’s a sucker punch to my chest. He takes both sides of my waist, squeezing gently, and my body sways automatically toward his. “Claire? Try me. ”
Woof. Okay.
I push up onto my toes slowly. So, so slowly, bringing my face toward his. Elliot has plenty of time to realize what I’m doing, to flinch away, but… he doesn’t. He waits, patient and handsome and smeared in rich chocolate cake as I crane my neck and bring my lips to his jaw.
God.
Heat pulses through my insides, needy and insistent, as an ache starts up between my legs. My knees wobble. For years, I’ve pictured what it might be like to kiss, to cling, to make love to somebody—okay, just to Elliot—and now my body is primed and ready to see what it’s really like. The crazy hormones zinging through my bloodstream don’t care that we got married for PR; not when the heat of his hands sears through my dress and brands me forever.
Elliot’s breath is warm against my cheek. His hands are tight on my waist, squeezing me in close—like for once, he doesn’t want to assert his personal space. Like for once in his life, he’s enjoying the sensation of another person’s body heat seeping through his clothes. Huh.
I’m dizzy as my teeth rasp gently against Elliot’s late night stubble. Sweet, decadent chocolate spreads across my tongue, cut through with the sweet sharpness of red berries, and I can’t help my quiet moan.
Elliot’s breath comes faster. His heart booms in his chest, so loud I can hear it in this quiet kitchen where the only other sounds are the rustle of our clothes and the drip, drip, drip of the faucet I didn’t turn off all the way.
And… is my awkward boss… into this?
Is he affected by this too?
Pulse fluttering, I drag my lips along Elliot’s jaw to his chin. He doesn’t stop me. No: he grunts, letting out a rough sound of encouragement, and widens his stance on the kitchen tiles so I can press even tighter against his body.
I do. You’d better believe I do.
For the record, since Elliot Ramsay’s body is uncharted territory: when you press against him, he’s every bit as solid and muscled and climbable as he looks from a distance. Except up close, you also smell his fresh, masculine soap and feel his heartbeat thudding through his shirt. Up close, you can lick the pulse point tapping frantically beneath his left ear and taste the salt on his skin.
And—okay. There was no cake beneath Elliot’s ear. I have no excuse for roaming over there, but the crazy thing is, he doesn’t seem to mind. Right now Elliot is messy and flustered and pressed against another human body, and an hour ago I’d have sworn that would be his worst nightmare—but the groan he lets out is pure pleasure. It reverberates around the kitchen and makes my toes scrunch against the cool tiles.
“This cake is good,” I whisper, dragging the tip of my nose across Elliot’s cheek. My tongue flicks out, licking away a smear of chocolate icing from just above my boss’s upper lip, and twin shudders coast through our bodies. “Thanks for buying it.”
“Sure.” Elliot sounds ruined, both arms wrapped around me now. Clutching me as close as we can possibly get without… well, you know. If he holds me like this for long, we may never peel apart. “It’s from that bakery by the river.”
“Oh, the cute one?”
I feel Elliot’s grin rather than see it. “You think every independent bakery is cute.”
“Well, they are.”
Lord, how are we making casual conversation right now, with our chocolate-smeared faces rubbing together like cats? How are we sounding normal as we do this? How ?
“I’m sorry I mashed it into your face and made such a mess.” My tongue darts out again, licking a chocolate glob from the corner of Elliot’s mouth. He grunts, hips pressing against mine, and yeah, he definitely doesn’t hate this. Not like I thought he would—not if the hard bulge in his pants is anything to go by. Can’t let myself dwell on those sensations too much or I’ll lose the final shreds of my sanity.
“I don’t mind,” Elliot grates out, tilting his head one way to give me better access to the delicious, chocolatey mess. Neck aching a little from craning up so long, I slide my lips across his cheek even though I’m running out of cake. Running out of excuses to touch my best friend like this. “Like you said. It’s tradition.”
That… settles me back on my heels. Just two words, and I’m snapped out of whatever hormone-addled fugue I was in.
Chocolate icing is sticky on my cheeks as I blink up at Elliot. I studiously avoid my reflection in the dark window like my life depends on it. “Tradition?”
Is that why he’s doing this, why he’s letting me rub up against him like a needy weirdo? Tradition?
My boss frowns. “Yes, tradition. That’s what you said.”
Shame and humiliation crash over me in a sickly wave, and my legs wobble as I step back. At first, I tread on the train of my wedding dress, the fabric straining, and I stagger to one side to avoid ripping it. Elliot reaches out but I wave him away.
“I’m fine! I’m fine.”
“Claire.”
“We should both shower. Separately!”
“ Claire .”
“You can go first. I know how uncomfortable you must be right now.”
“There are two bathrooms. I’m not—”
I never hear what Elliot is not , because I grab two handfuls of wedding gown and jog out of his kitchen like there’s somewhere I urgently need to be.
But there’s nowhere to run. This is our penthouse now, our marital home, and as of today, I live here with the man I’ve pined for since puberty first overran my body in high school.
The man I love.
The man I crave .
The man who married me for PR reasons.
Yikes.