Chapter 10 Extra Provision
TEN
EXTRA PROVISION
ANNALIESE
As far as I know, Sebastien has two main vehicles: a shiny motorcycle, and a bright red Porsche that is as flashy as it was probably super expensive.
I’d shut down the idea that we rent a limo for our wedding.
I was trying to keep it on the down low as much as I could.
A big stretch limo bringing us all to St. Catherine’s, then the cafe that Sebastien insisted we all eat at?
No, thank you. We could all find our way to and from the church and the restaurant.
He thought I was being frugal. After jokingly telling me to hold on to his card, he reminded me that I could spend whatever I wanted to plan our wedding.
I didn’t have a problem with that. Hey, my folks do pretty well for themselves, too.
We don’t have Reynolds money, no, but I’m not the sort of woman who will refuse someone else’s generosity.
If I was, I never would’ve ended up with Eric as long as I did…
My new husband insisted on driving us to the church.
I almost pointed out the old adage about it being bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding, but then I remembered that this isn’t a real wedding.
For all intents and purposes, this is basically fake.
So when he said he’d drive me, I agreed.
Besides, it wasn’t really a wedding dress.
It’s a simple white gown that I picked up from Felicia’s, one of my favorite shops on the north end of Harmony Heights.
A white gown that is covered in sticky, halfway-dried red wine courtesy of the clumsy waitress who was in charge of serving our wedding reception at Sebastien’s restaurant of choice.
I don’t want to think poorly of anyone, but I’m not so sure how much of that was an accident.
She returned with a single glass of wine, though no one asked for a refill, and she just so happened to stumble in time to drop it on my lap.
And maybe I could excuse it for a slip if it wasn’t for the way I saw her watching Sebastien so closely, jealousy pinching her features, as though she wished that she was his bride…
But she’s not. I am. ‘Til death do us part—or, you know, next March when the one-year term of our contract is up—I’m now Annaliese Reynolds.
It was a stipulation he added off-handedly during the last hectic days of wedding planning, and I agreed because it was such a small concession.
Besides, if I kept my name, it would only be obvious that I’m not truly his wife.
And if I’m not protected by an Order member, I can only imagine how far Eric will go to make me pay for my disobedience.
He threatened Miranda. I have no doubt in my mind that he’ll go through with it, taking Colton and her future as his wife away from her.
The Dawes family is too enmeshed in the Order of the Owed for me to believe that Colton—for all the love that he has for my sister—would ever choose her over the secret society.
His parents wouldn’t let him, and neither would Miranda.
But that’s not all. Mom has slowed down with her event planning business over the last year.
She claims she’s preparing to retire, but she’s barely fifty.
She could work if she chose to, but I have the feeling that her job started drying up, oh, about three months ago—right around the time I ended things with Eric.
And Dad… he’s an engineer. That’s how he ended up getting inducted in the Order.
Some project he did a decade ago earned quite a few Owed a pretty penny, and they repaid him by sponsoring him into the society.
His job changed our lives, and I know he’ll work until he’s on his deathbed… but not if Eric interferes.
Fucking Eric.
As Sebastien pulls up outside my building, he kills the engine to his Porsche, though he doesn’t get out right away. His hands rest loosely on the steering wheel instead, a picture of relaxed confidence.
He glances my way. “You alright?”
“I’m—” My voice cracks. I quickly clear my throat. “I’m fine. Just tired. It was a long day.”
“But a good one?”
I nod, and he flashes me a grin that has my heart stuttering in my chest.
So I’m married to a man I barely know.
To him.
In this car, just the two of us… I feel like I’ve known Sebastien Reynolds my entire life.
I could pick out the slight imperfection on his cheek with my eyes closed, trail my finger down the pale slash over his eyes, trace the curve of his nose and his jaw…
but before I can do any of that, he pops open his door.
He circles around the front of the car, opening the door for me, helping me and my stained wedding dress climb out of the Porsche.
“Come on, love. Let’s get you home.”
Home. Right. This is my apartment because, despite us just having our wedding, I’m living in my apartment, he’s living in his mansion, and there will be no wedding night for us.
Not when it was a fake wedding.
This is the first time he’s been to my place. Any planning we did was over the phone or after he invited me to return to his house. As we take the elevator up together, I’m suddenly nervous. It’s nothing like what a Reynolds would be used to, but I want him to like what I’ve done with my space.
It’s not much. I have a living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. It’s more than enough for just one person, and as I use my keys to open my front door, I suck in a breath before shoving it in.
I almost expect Sebastien to leave now that he’s followed me up to the third floor and has seen me safely to my door. If so, I don’t know him at all. Of course he follows me in, his dark gaze sweeping over the entryway.
He sidles past my, hands momentarily bracing my shoulders—my skin tingling upon the slight contact—before he moves further into the apartment.
“You got good security here, love?”
Why would he want to know? “Um. Yeah.” I toss my keys in my purse, put my purse on my couch as I pass it, joining him in the living room. “A sturdy lock. Window latches. A chain when I remember to engage it.”
“No cameras?”
I give him a curious look. “No. Why?”
Sebastien turns into me, chucking my chin. “We’ll have to get you some. You may insist on staying here, but I need to know my wife is safe.”
My wife.
My wiiiiiffe.
Oh, boy.
That shouldn’t warm me up the way it does. Or how he cares about my safety like that… “I’ll look into it.”
“Don’t worry, love. I’ll take care of it. After all, I am your husband now.”
The way he says that is like he dares me to tell him that he isn’t. How can I? Especially when I’m still standing here in the dress I wore to marry him…
I nod, and he chuckles under his breath, visibly pleased with himself for winning that minor battle so easily.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but before I can find the words, Sebastien walks over to me, moving until he’s behind me. He hooks a finger somewhere in the back of my dress.
“Long day, remember?” he murmurs. “Let me help you get out of this, then I’ll go.”
I almost argue—but I don’t. For one, if my husband wants to see me in my underwear, that’s his right, isn’t it?
I promised him intimacy if he wanted it, and this is our wedding night.
For another, he’s not wrong. I’d needed Miranda to help me zip up into this after she came by to get ready with me before Sebastien picked me up.
Miranda went home with our parents. How did I expect to get out of this dress?
Sebastien handles that part. He slides the zipper down, slow enough to make every nerve in my body light up with undeniable want as he reveals my back to him.
The dress loosens around my shoulders. However, before I can climb out of it, Sebastien backs away.
“All done,” he says softly. “Goodnight, Annaliese.”
Oh. Okay. “Goodnight.”
It’s for the best. Emotions are running high tonight, and if I’m not careful, I can’t get myself into even more trouble. Besides, this is what I wanted, isn’t it? A marriage of convenience? A fake husband?
I wait for him to head for the front door, looking at the floor instead of in his pretty face. Then, dress clutched to my chest, I hurry into my bedroom and close the door.
I have to take my hair out. I have to wash the make-up from my face.
I have to figure out a way to get the red wine stain out before it sets and my ‘wedding’ dress is ruined.
First, though, I shimmy out of it. After I lay it out on my bed, seeing how much damage that klutzy waitress did, I throw on a pair of pajamas I would’ve never dared wear in Eric’s house: an oversized t-shirt for just this purpose, plus a pair of cozy sleep pants almost as silky as my dress.
Phone, I think. I left my purse on the couch, and if I want to look up how to get that stain out, I need my phone.
So, still made-up, my hair still done, I pad out in my bare feet to my living room—and let out a muffled shriek when I find someone sitting on my couch.
I clapped my hands over my mouth faster than I’m able to recognize him.
Heart racing, I throw my hands down at my side. “Sebastien? I thought you left!”
He holds up my phone. “Sorry, love. I found this on the floor of my car. It must’ve fallen out of your purse or off your lap during the car ride over. I thought you’d might want it.”
Oh. “Thank you. I’m sorry for screaming. You… you startled me.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“No. No, I know that. But thanks.” I go over to him, holding out my hand. He drops my phone against my waiting palm, though he doesn’t get up from my two-seater couch.
Well, that’s not totally awkward, is it?
“That’s not all you forgot, either, love.”
My brows knit. My purse, my keys, my phone… “I… what else did I forget?”
My new husband stands up from the couch, slowly and deliberately, before he moves until he’s standing right in front of me.
I let out a shaky breath as he tilts my chin up with a knuckle. And then he kisses me.
One hand slides to my jaw, the other to my waist, anchoring me to him like he can’t bear the idea of any kind of space between us.
His mouth is warm and slow, devastatingly tender, but underneath it is pure want.
It’s the kind that tells me he’s been starving for me since our last kiss, back at St. Catherine’s.
He pulls back just enough to breathe against my lips.
“God,” he whispers. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that again. And that peck at the church didn’t count, Annaliese. That is the kind of kiss I expect.”
My fingers curl into his shirt. I don’t even realize I’m doing it as I ask, “What do you mean?”
“I’m your husband,” he reminds me, eyes dark and lazy, but undeniably possessive. “I expect a kiss ‘hello’ and a kiss ‘goodbye’.”
Breaking away from me, my hands untangling from the fabric of his dress shirt, he reaches inside of his jacket. With a crooked grin, he pulls out a pen.
He holds it out to me. “You can put that provision in your copy of the contract.” The grin develops a wicked edge that makes my knees go weaker than they were during our kiss. “I’m sure as hell adding it to mine.”
I wake up the next morning, halfway convinced that yesterday was one hell of a dream. I didn’t really marry Sebastien Reynolds, did I?
Two things assure me that I did: the whisper of his cologne lingering in my apartment, somehow seeping into my room, plus the weight of the gold band on the fourth finger of my left hand.
After our kiss, he left, and listening to his comments about keeping ‘his wife’ safe, I double-checked that I locked the door and the windows.
Then I took one cold ass shower, trying to keep from begging him to take me again.
Instead I touched myself to the memory of that night in the Last Prayer before curling up alone in my bed.
I’m there now, still stunned that this… this happened. This is my life now. And, sure, nothing’s really changed except my last name and my marital status in the eyes of the Order, but I can’t help but think that my life as I know it will never be the same.
And I get confirmation of that about an hour later when my phone buzzes and I pick it up, reading the text message that just came in:
HUBBY
Good morning, Mrs. Reynolds. I have reservations for dinner tonight at Guiseppe’s. I’ll pick you up at seven.
My mouth falls open. Dinner? What does that mean? Is Sebastien… is my fake husband asking me out?
Well, no, he’s not asking me anything. He’s telling me that we’re going out to dinner, and I can’t think of any reason to refuse him.
He’ll expect a kiss, too. That’s what he said. A kiss ‘hello’, a kiss ‘goodbye’, and who knows what else.
And I don’t know what I think about that, either.