5. Chapter Five #2
I shrug. “Anyway. We'll wake up tomorrow, laugh about all of this, and head straight to get an annulment,” I confirm with him.
“Still plotting our demise, are you?” he asks, and Lord help me.
I’m not even a Bridgerton girl like that. I’m not the type who melts at a British accent or daydreams about princes and polite society. But this man’s voice is something out of a fairy tale—gritty and smooth, like silk with a hidden bite. It doesn’t just speak. It crawls over your skin.
“That is what we agreed to,” I remind him.
The only reason I even agreed to continue this ridiculous marriage experiment was because of a conversation we had back in the pods.
Luca and I had laughed about the nearly identical promises we’d made to our friends—that for once in our lives, we would do something completely out of character this weekend.
With that in mind, we made a pact to just ride the wave and see where we landed. It was supposed to be a harmless adventure, a ridiculous story I could take back to Ms. Lilly to make her swoon over me being a temporary contestant on her favorite show. That was all this was ever meant to be.
But then he meets my eyes, and for a fleeting second, everything shifts. His posture eases, his defenses drop, and the sharp energy he carries seems to smooth out.
“That was before I saw you,” he says, his voice quiet but devastatingly sure.
He means it. I can tell it’s not some performative, sweep-you-off-your-feet line. He says it with the certainty of someone who had one plan and suddenly finds himself living another.
And damn it to hell, I think I feel it too. Like something shifted the second we stepped out of those pods and into the light. Into each other. It feels like, ‘I do,’ flipped a switch neither of us expected.
My smile is instant. Cheeks burning, completely useless at hiding the blush he’s managing to pull out of me. “Nice line, charmer. But we’re still only doing this for one night. I’m a woman of my word.”
“Famous last words,” he whispers.
Something about this moment feels suspended. The noise of the world fades until the reality of it all shifts. Transporting us into a scene from a romantic comedy where the credits have stopped rolling, and there’s no one left in view but us.
“I’m actually not a charmer,” he says with an honesty that throws me. “Most people think I’m an asshole. A bit rigid.”
“You don’t seem rigid to me,” I say slowly, lifting my hand to show him the plastic band still unfamiliar on my finger. “We just walked out of a pod, into a chapel, and came out husband and wife. That doesn’t exactly scream uptight, in my humble opinion.”
He looks at my hand, then back at me, before closing the gap between us.
It isn't a threat or even an aggressive play. He just moves in close enough for me to catch his scent. It’s clean skin and fresh linen, underpinned by something warm and woodsy. It makes me wonder how he takes his tea every morning.
“So what now, Ms. Mysterious?”
I laugh—part nerves, part shock that this is even my life.
“I think…” I say slowly, “Would you mind if maybe we spend a little more time getting to know each other?”
He studies me like he’s not used to hearing no. But there’s no annoyance in his face. “Of course,” he says, voice low and sincere. “No pressure. And if at any point you want to pull the plug on this whole bloody thing, we’ll do it. Straight away. I never want you to feel trapped with me.”
He’s…special.
“Should we maybe come up with a safe word? For when things get too heavy?”
His brow lifts then his expression goes mischievous. “Safe word sounds fun. Define heavy.”
I shake my head. “Nothing like that, perv.” Yet. “I don’t know. Too much?”
His voice drops an octave, teasing. “Too dangerous?”
Oh, boy. If his voice dips any lower, my panties are going to follow suit.
“Just… if we start talking about something, or doing something, that’s more than we’re ready for,” I clarify, fighting to keep my focus. “Or if we simply change our minds.”
“Alright,” he says thoughtfully. “How about ‘line’?”
I squint at him. “Line? Why line?”
“When playing football—” he pauses and appears to be searching for the right words. “I suppose here you’d call it the field. There are white lines that mark the boundaries. So, if I do anything to cross a line—”
“Or get close to crossing a line,” I cut in.
“Exactly. You just hold up a hand and say ‘line.’ And I’ll stop. Walk away. No questions asked.”
I smile. Because somehow, this ridiculous, impulsive, accidental marriage actually feels safe.
Except for the fact that he mentioned sports. After everything with Croix, that’s the one subject I’m not ready to touch. The second the word football leaves his mouth, I make a mental note to steer clear—even if, technically, Croix plays soccer.
I shake the thought of him out of my head. If I start talking about sports, I’ll start thinking about Croix. And if I think about Croix, I’ll remember just how recently I walked away from a relationship that looked perfect on paper, but never once made me feel like this.
I don’t think any man has ever gotten under my skin this quickly.
Usually, I’m the queen of keeping people at arm's length, but he’s a force, bypassing my defenses as if they never stood a chance.
He quiets every frantic thought, every lingering doubt, and every suffocating judgment from the people in my life who have spent years suffocating me with their high expectations.
My family raised me in the heart of the Bible Belt, praying I’d settle down and marry a respectable pastor.
My mother probably would have settled for a soccer player if it meant a ring and a predictable life, but she has no idea what’s coming.
I can’t wait to see her face when she realizes she didn't get a saint or a sportsman—she got a Killmonger.
“Okay, then. Line is the safeword,” I say, keeping my tone measured. “Because this is all new and weird, and I don’t just jump into bed with strangers.”
“But honey, we’re married,” he counters, one brow lifted.
“And you barely know my name,” I shoot back. “It’s already bad enough that I have to explain to my mother that she missed my first wedding. Can you imagine how scandalized she’d be if I told her I slept with you without even knowing how you hang your toilet paper?”
That earns me a lazy, sexy grin. “Fair enough, Ms. Mysterious. Let’s take a walk, shall we? Get to know each other properly. And for the record, my nanny always hung the roll with the paper coming over the top. Under is just uncivilized.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, your nanny? Did I accidentally marry into money?” I laugh. “And we didn’t sign a prenup? Hashtag winning!”
He chuckles. “I’m not rich. My family is…comfortable. Well-off, perhaps, but nothing mental. They just funneled everything into our upbringing and education. My siblings and me. We were the investment.”
I nod slowly, taking that in. A man raised with a nanny, educated, and groomed like a future somebody. Getting to know him might not be the worst idea in the world.
It’s late May, and the Vegas air carries that specific desert heat that tells you Summer is on its way.
It’s thick, but vibrating with the glow of neon and a restless energy.
Maybe it’s the atmosphere, or maybe it’s the four Cosmos and two tequila shots still fueling my system, but everything feels cinematic.
When Luca suggests we walk the Strip, I agree.
I said, “I do,” in a chapel that smelled of incense, weed, and watered-down cologne, yet walking beside this man right now, we fall into a rhythm so effortless it feels stolen from a future we haven't earned.
Like new lovers. Or old friends.
I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but I find I don’t mind the mystery. There’s a thrill in the adventure of us, a slow unfolding of whatever this is.
Then I hear the brittle, unmistakable clack of heels and a burst of laughter that shatters the private haze surrounding us. Between him and me.
“Oh my God, Aspen!”
I turn just in time to see Liberty and Mylene making a beeline toward us. They are decked out in peak revenge attire. Plunging necklines, thigh-high slits, and expressions that suggest they didn’t come to Vegas to play nice.
Tatum is the only one missing. Her interviews with the Atlanta Strikers were fast-tracked, derailing her travel plans at the last second. I wish she was here. I’d been texting her a play-by-play right up until the wedding part, so there is going to be some serious explaining to do later.
Both women slow as they get a proper look at Luca. Their expressions shift in slow motion from curiosity, to intrigue, to blatant, shimmering hunger.
“Wow,” Mylene breathes, her eyes dragging over him like he’s the first meal after a Beyoncé cleanse. “Who’s your hottie?”
Luca smirks, hands tucked casually in his pockets, before offering a polite nod. “Ladies.”
Then, like a scene from an old-school film, he reaches out and kisses each of their hands—slowly, with a devastating charm. “I’m Luca. Aspen’s husband.”
I whip my head toward him, shooting him a murderous glare. “Subtle much?”
He winks at me like I’m in on the joke.
Liberty grabs my wrist and pulls me aside, Mylene follows along.
“You really did that stupid reality show thing?” Liberty hisses.
“To be fair,” I start, internally cringing at how defensive I sound, “I was more than a little tipsy when I wandered in. I didn’t think it would actually lead to anything. But, we agreed it was just for the night.”
A throat clears behind me, dry and pointed. “Excuse me. Wife?”
I shake my head. “Okay, you can definitely stop calling me that, now.”
“Fine, Ms. Mysterious,” Luca says, his tone laced with a smirk I can practically hear. “I’m going to change out of my work clothes and give you ladies some space to talk.”