CHAPTER NINE
Frankie
If I could have evaporated into the high-thread-count sheets and become one with the mattress, I would have.
Waking up was a slow-motion car crash of memories.
First, there was the dull, rhythmic thumping in my temples — the price I was paying for those four glasses of spiked punch.
Then, there was warmth. A steady, radiating heat that felt like being pressed against a brick wall that had been baking in the sun all day.
I didn’t need to open my eyes to know where I was. Or who I was with.
The first wave of awareness that hit me was that I was wearing a t-shirt that wasn’t mine. Along with a pair of panties and bra that had twisted in the night, cutting into me.
Then the events of the rehearsal dinner hit me in a wave of I can’t believe I did that. My mouth had apparently decided enough was enough and had insulted Tiffany with little finesse. In the cold light of day, I sincerely doubted she’d had plastic surgery. I wasn’t so certain about the botox.
But as embarrassing as that was, it wasn’t the reason I wanted to crawl out of the bed like a thief in the middle of the night.
It was what had happened after that. In the elevator. Max’s hands on my ass, his mouth devouring mine. The way he looked at me when he slammed the door to our suite, and I’d told him to hurry.
I’d been so close. I’d been seconds away from finally finding out what it would be like to spend the night in Max Wilder’s bed, and my traitorous body had decided that was the perfect moment to shut down and go to sleep.
I groaned, the sound muffled by the pillow. Or so I thought.
“Finally awake?”
Max’s arm tightened around me, draped over my waist like a heavy iron bar, pinning me back against the hard planes of his chest and thighs.
He pulled me back tighter, his hand sliding from my waist, up my stomach to cup the underside of one breast. He didn’t hide his arousal—he freaking pushed it against me, reminding me of exactly where we’d left off.
I was not the type of woman who found herself in this position very often.
In fact, I could count the times with two fingers. And I wasn’t even sure one time had actually counted.
“Max. I didn’t mean to... you know. Pass out on you. It was the punch. You were right. It was spiked. Really, really spiked.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Frankie.” He kissed my shoulder, his stubble grazing my skin. “Though I’ll admit, my patience is wearing thin. I’ve spent the last eight hours holding you, smelling you, and trying not to wake you up just to finish what we started.”
“You could have,” I whispered, my no-filter brain deciding that since I was already mortified, I might as well be honest. “I wouldn’t have complained.”
“I want you wide awake. I want to see your eyes when I’m inside you. I want to hear exactly what that mouth of yours says when I’m giving you something better to think about than lag bolts.”
I let out a shaky breath, my body arching into his. I was a mess of high-heat arousal and shy embarrassment. “Well, I’m awake now.”
“You’re hungover,” he corrected, his hand sliding back down, finding the soft skin of my ribs. “And we have a wedding to get through. My family is already circling the wagons downstairs. Tiffany probably has a hit out on you by now.”
I sighed, the reality of the day crashing back in. The wedding. The finale. The last hurdle before we could get out of this mountain lodge and back to the real world — whatever real was going to look like for me after this.
This was the second night we’d woken in each other’s arms. It had felt right both times.
“We stay for the ceremony, we stay for the dance, we show them we don’t give a damn about anything, and then we’re out. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could catch them.
Max got out the bed then reached down and pulled me into his arms. He leaned down, his mouth hovering just an inch from mine. “I like it when you call me that.”
Then he kissed me, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with devastating thoroughness. When he finally pulled back, I was breathless and aching.
“Get in that shower. Before I say to hell with the wedding and keep you in this bed all day.”
I practically ran for the bathroom. Behind me, I heard his low, dark chuckle.
An hour later, I stood in front of the full-length mirror, having a quiet crisis about appropriate wedding attire.
The dress was simple — a deep navy that wasn’t quite black but wasn’t quite blue either.
It had elbow length sleeves and the hem hit just below the knee.
Conservative. Boring. The kind of dress that said, please don’t look at me, I’m just here for the cake.
Which was hilarious, considering I felt like I’d spent the entire weekend being the center of attention for all the wrong reasons.
Max emerged from the bathroom in a dark suit that probably cost more than my car. He looked like money and power and sex all wrapped up in one gorgeous bundle.
He stopped when he saw me, his gaze traveling slowly from my shoes to my face.
“You look beautiful.”
“I look like a church secretary. A very nervous church secretary who’s afraid someone’s going to ask her to play the piano. I don’t know how to play the piano, Max.”
His mouth twitched. “Is that so? But you do know how to look beautiful.”
“Max,” I whispered. I wanted nothing more for him to throw me back on that bed and finish what we hadn’t started last night. “Maybe I should fake food poisoning. Or there’s an emergency at the hardware store.. Do you think they’d believe me if I said there was a critical shortage of screws?”
Max crossed to me, his hands settling on my hips. “You’re spiraling.”
“I’m realistic. There’s a difference.” I looked up at him.
“Your cousin is going to walk down that aisle with a split lip that you gave him. Your ex-girlfriend is marrying said cousin. Your entire family is going to be staring at us. And I insulted the bride about her plastic surgery in front of half the wedding party.”
“You were magnificent.”
“I was drunk and reckless.”
“Frankie.” He waited until I met his eyes. “We’re going to walk in there together. You’re going to hold your head up. And if anyone says one word out of line, you tell me.”
“So, you can punch them too?”
“If necessary.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “You can’t solve all your problems by hitting people, Max.”
“Watch me.” But there was a hint of amusement in his voice now. He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Come on. Let’s go watch my cousin get married with the evidence of my right hook on display.”
The lodge’s chapel was filled with the elite of the county, all of them whispering as we walked down the aisle to our seats. I could feel every eye tracking our progress, could practically hear the gossip being filed away for later.
And there, at the front, standing beside the minister, was Leo.
His bottom lip was swollen, split down the middle with a dark red line that someone had tried — and failed — to cover with lipstick.
Under the chapel lights, it looked angry and obvious.
He kept his mouth pressed in a thin line, probably trying to minimize the damage, but every time he moved, I could see him wince.
I felt Max’s hand tighten on mine.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “His lip. It’s worse than it was last night.”
“Mmm.” Max sounded deeply satisfied.
“People are staring.”
“Let them.”
We took our seats beside Max’s mother, who gave me a warm smile that did nothing to ease the knot in my stomach. On my other side, Max sat like a wall of muscle. His hand found my thigh and splayed wide. A possessive, clear message to everyone watching.
The whispers grew louder.
“Did you see Leo’s face—”
“—I heard it was Max—”
“—punched him yesterday—”
“—over that girl from the hardware store—”
I tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on the flower arrangements, the stained glass windows, anything but the fact that I was sitting in a chapel watching the aftermath of my fake boyfriend defending my honor with his fists.
When the music started and Tiffany appeared at the back of the chapel, the whispers finally stopped.
She looked perfect, of course. Ice-blonde hair swept up, a dress that probably could probably fund a small country for a year, and a smile that was pure bridal radiance until she glanced at Leo’s lip.
Her gaze cut to Max and me with that signature look of disdain.
Max’s thumb stroked a slow, deliberate circle on my thigh. He didn’t even glance at Tiffany. He was looking at me.
The ceremony began. The minister droned on about love and commitment and forever.
Words I didn’t think were in either the bride’s or groom’s vocabulary.
Leo repeated his vows carefully, clearly trying not to move his split lip more than necessary.
Every word looked like it hurt. Tiffany’s voice was crystal clear, her smile never wavering.
And I sat there with Max’s hand burning a brand into my thigh. Smiling because we had proven that Max didn’t give a damn about Tiffany marrying Leo.
The chapel erupted in polite applause as Leo kissed Tiffany with visible caution, his swollen lip clearly protesting. They turned to face the congregation, all smiles and triumph, but Leo’s eyes found Max immediately.
The look he gave us was pure venom.
Max smiled back. Slow and dangerous.
“Now for the fun part,” Max muttered into my ear as we stood to follow the recessional.
“The dancing?” I asked.
“No,” he growled, his hand sliding down to my backside as he steered me toward the exit. “The part where I show them exactly what I’m taking home.”
And despite everything—the whispers, the split lip, the drama—I felt a shiver of anticipation run down my spine.
This fake relationship was starting to feel a lot less fake by the minute.