Chapter 15
PIPER
If two weeks ago you told me I’d be married right now—well, I’d have believed you. It would’ve been really easy to believe you. It would have been harder to believe that I wouldn’t be married at this moment.
But I never would have been able to guess who my husband would be. Not if you gave me a thousand chances.
I’d have struck out on guessing where my reception took place, too. Not that you can really call this a reception.
The judge was in his office, and he agreed to marry us on the spot.
Sally acted as our witness. When we had to admit we didn’t even have any rings with us, something that hadn’t crossed either of our minds, Sally found two toy rings in her desk that we used.
Afterward, her shift was over, and she insisted we all go out for a celebratory drink.
Obviously, we didn’t let her in on the fact that this marriage is fake. We just told her we wanted a minimal ceremony with no guests and no attention. Surprisingly, both she and the judge bought it without question.
Then again, since they know Nash, maybe it’s not so surprising that they’d believe that.
But Sally said she couldn’t bear the thought of seeing “her second favorite person in Austin” get married without toasting to him just once. The tips of Nash’s ears turned pink at that comment, and I can’t deny that my heart swooned a little bit.
So the three of us took a walk to the very same bar Nash and I went to that night he picked me up in his truck last week.
I’ve been here in a thousand-dollar dress, and now I’m here in a white wedding gown. I’d wonder what the bartenders and regulars think of me, but in a place like this, they’ve probably seen it all and then some.
One thing I’m not wearing from early today, though, are my heels. Before pulling out of the Wendy’s parking lot to drive to the courthouse, Nash reached behind his seat and grabbed a box that he handed to me.
Inside were a new pair of New Balance sneakers. This time they were silver—the color I told him I’d have chosen for myself that night.
Sally sets her half-finished bottle of beer on the scratched wooden bar counter.
“That’s enough for me. Max’s babysitter can’t stay any longer, so I gotta head home.
My place is just a couple blocks away, so I’m walking.
” She nudges Nash with a grateful smile.
“That’s one benefit of having a hockey star pay a year’s rent upfront on a downtown apartment you’d never be able to afford yourself. ”
Nash tries to hide his blush by tipping his head back to take a long pull of his drink.
I give Sally a hug goodbye. She forces a goodbye hug on Nash, too, and I laugh when she once again squeezes the wind out of him.
When I find myself alone on a barstool next to my new husband, the surreality of the situation has me at a rare loss for words for a stretch of time.
Surprisingly, Nash breaks the silence. “Should we come here in six months to celebrate our divorce, too?”
I laugh, caught off guard by Nash making a joke. “I guess this kind of is our place, huh?”
Something hard to read tips into Nash’s eyes. Something soft, almost tender, and seeing it makes my chest feel warm. He shakes it off in no time, though.
“Gotta use the bathroom,” he says after chugging the rest of his beer. “Then let’s go somewhere and actually talk about the logistics of this thing.”
“The logistics of this thing,” I repeat with a chuckle, shaking my head. “You’re a real sweet talker on your honeymoon, Nash.”
He rolls his eyes. Just this one time, I don’t even try not to rest my gaze on his firm ass as he strides to the bathroom in his well-fitting black denim. I don’t reproach myself for it, either. Call it a little wedding gift to myself.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been that bad if the judge hadn’t forgotten to tell him he can kiss me after pronouncing us husband and wife.
I stand up from my stool to stretch. Maybe it’s from the stress of the day, but my back and shoulders are so tense. I take a step back so I have room to reach my hands over my head, but I feel myself step on someone’s foot and knock into their chest.
“Woops,” I blurt, turning around. “Sorry about that.”
My voice is apologetic, but there’s nothing forgiving about the scowl of the rough-looking man I see.
“Why don’t you watch where the hell you’re stepping, princess?” The sandpaper rasp of his voice sounds like it’s been earned by decades of heavy smoking. The yellow on his teeth looks like it was obtained the same way.
Maybe it’s because I feel like I’ve received one too many kicks in the butt recently, but I bristle at his words. The fight I have left in me roars to life, and I don’t feel like backing down in the face of an asshole.
“Why don’t you learn to accept someone’s apology with a little bit of decency when they just make a tiny mistake?”
His nose twitches with a glower. “Listen, princess, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but—”
“My wife, that’s who she is.” The low growl of Nash’s voice next to me takes my breath away, and the way he hooks his arm around my waist to tug me close has an eruption of sparks dancing over my body. “And if you like having all your teeth in your mouth, you better treat her that way.”
The aggression in the man’s face instantly melts into cowardice, and with one last scowl, he slinks away into the crowd.
My stomach feels full of butterflies. Even though I feel the heat Nash’s muscles are generating as I’m tucked next to him, my nipples suddenly tighten into sharp points like they’ve been rubbed with an ice cube.
I’ve never had a man make some macho, territorial display for me before. Or call me his wife. A fluttery, charged feeling fills my chest.
Maybe it’s just too much for me to feel comfortable with, since I know this thing between Nash and me is fake as fake can be. Maybe that’s why I protest.
“I can take care of myself, you know,” I tell Nash, trying to sound independent even though I can feel how flimsy my voice is with his arm wrapped around me.
A dimple carves into Nash’s stubble-coated cheek when he smirks. “I have no doubt my wife can take care of herself. I also know that she’s kind enough not to deprive me of the pleasure of taking care of her sometimes, too.”
Hearing the word pleasure from Nash’s mouth has a blast of heat spreading low in my center. Where did this playfulness of his come from? Did he somehow chug a dozen beers on his way back from the bathroom?
“Who are you and what have you done with Nash Miller?”
His smirk tilts higher, and that damn dimple carves deeper. “Haven’t you heard that marriage can change a man?”
Like whiplash, the dreamy look in Nash’s eyes disappears, the smirk and the dimple along with it.
The lines of his face harden as he reassumes his usual serious expression.
He steps away from me, shoving his hands in his pockets.
I feel the loss of his warmth way too much, and I try to ignore the sense of disappointment that hardens in my stomach.
“There’s a coffee shop close by,” he says. “Should we get a cup and figure out how this thing is going to work?”
I’d rather get another drink here, see you threaten another guy for me, and then go to your place and do what a couple’s supposed to do on their wedding night.
The danger center of my brain activates at that unintentional thought.
The last thing I need in my current emotional state is to make things complicated with Nash when this is supposed to be a cut-and-dry, mutually beneficial arrangement for something as dull and unromantic as inheritance and sponsorship money.
“After you, dear,” I agree, sweeping my arm toward the exit.
It’s a good thing that Nash and I are going to be doing this fake marriage thing at a distance. We won’t have to spend much time together. Because I think I could get too used to playfully calling him pet names.
And I think I could get way too used to hearing him call me his wife.