Chapter 6 Fin
Chapter 6
Fin
“Does that mean you recognize me now?”
Her smile falters, the movement of her hand turning tentative. When it looks like she might pull away, I cover her hand with my own, pressing it to the contour of my cheek. As I slide her thumb over the smooth skin above my lip, her pretty eyes widen beneath the netting.
“I ...” Fluttering lashes and a dash of discombobulation complete such a lovely effect.
“Half-grown Chia Pet” my ass.
I bite back my smile. The ’stache was magnificent, and I was attached to it. Unless we’re being literal, in which case it’s more like it was attached to me. I’d planned to shave it off today as a kind of wedding gift to Oliver. It had already served its original purpose in proving to him he liked me more than he hated it. I considered the threat of it fair punishment after he’d shit talked the ’stache for months, even going as far as making idle threats to replace me as his best man.
But given the change in circumstances and the reduction in my role (or the elevation of it, depending on your perspective) I would’ve kept it a little longer. I’d grown to like the thing. Sure, some people said it made me look like a 1980s TV detective (Evie) or an aging porn star (Matt), but it had its uses. When asked a question during work conferences and consultations, I’d learned to pause, then stroke it, achieving a pensive kind of effect. It was a perfect cover for boredom, inattention, and general navel-gazing.
I would practice a mediative caress to suggest I was paying attention to a date. That had come in useful, as my love life has been pretty boring lately. It’s felt a lot like a repeat of the same scene. Like I’d order a meal from a restaurant, but somehow the kitchen would keep sending me out the same dish. Night after night.
Maybe I’m getting too old to date.
Maybe I should take a break.
Maybe I should actually get married.
That would break the cycle of tedium, for sure. At least there’s nothing predictable about Mila. My closet-dwelling beauty. She looks the same as she did, all dark doe eyes and generous curves, but she’s feistier than I recall. And that’s not a complaint but a compliment.
As I watched her walking toward me a few moments ago, a bride in ivory, I thought how it could be any woman under that veil. Yet the tempting swing of her hips seemed to call to me viscerally.
Hello, lover, they seemed to say. Remember me?
How could I forget? I’ve played those moments on repeat.
But curious, repulsed, or ambivalent, women have wanted to touch the ’stache. To experience the brush of it. Often, in more places than just one. It seemed to me as though they’d talk themselves into it, no matter their initial feeling.
So why shave it off? Why not allow Mila to talk herself into exploring its benefits? I guess it seemed like the right thing to do, especially as my presence here on the island seems to have pissed her mightily off.
But more importantly: Hey, Mila, I’ve shaved a seat for you.
“May I?” I ask, tentatively reaching for her veil.
She nods and whispers, “I suppose.”
I lift and ... holy fuck. Time seems to stop, the hairs on the back of my neck standing like pins. She is just perfect. Her eyes are so rich and dark, like the color of espresso, just as I’d remembered. Maybe even prettier as the lowering sun brings out lighter striations, the color of a good espresso crema. She takes my breath away, my words, my sense. The setting sun seems to shine brighter, the heady scent of tropical blooms somehow sweeter. How is that? Why?
“You’re beautiful.”
She could’ve stepped from some heavenly dimension, her cheekbones flushed and rosy and her full lips so fucking tempting.
The night we met, when I opened the closet door, curious as to the noise—and a little buzzed, so why not—I was struck by how exquisitely lovely she was. Her eyes were sad and beautiful, but as they lifted to mine, I felt a jolt of connection. The sensation electric. Undeniable.
We talked. She told me about her ex, and I said something asinine about time healing. And how the universe was full of chance and wonder. I’d been right, as it turned out.
“Thank you.” She swallows as her eyes slide away, her neck flushing a deep pink. “But you don’t need to flatter me, and you didn’t need to shave. Not for me.”
I’d do more than shave to feel those soft lips again. To hear those tight breaths. To feel her pleasure pulse against my fingertips.
“I’m nothing if not diligent.” Diligent in my pursuit of you.
She gives a tiny, confused shake of her head. “I just don’t know why you would.”
“It’s not a big deal.” It just means you don’t get to ride it later.
Because let’s not fool ourselves: this marriage might be for show, but the sparks that dance between us defy the things coming out of her mouth.
No, there’s nothing boring about Mila. And my day is turning out to be amazing. I mean, it’s not that I wasn’t looking forward to watching my best friend tie himself forever to the woman he fell for.
Tie himself. To Evie. For. Ever. That shit just blows my mind.
I love Evie—how could I not? She’s amazing. And how she succeeded in molding Oliver into someone almost human, I’ll never know. He’s her person—the one human in the world meant for her. And she’s his. True love is rare, and I think most of us only ever get to feel a facsimile of it. But Oliver and Evie are the real deal. And the things she says to him—the way she busts his balls? That’s my favorite thing about Evie. It feels like she’s always been part of our friendship group. Me, Oliver, Matt, and Evie. The dream team grown.
I reach for Mila’s hands, running my thumb over her dainty fingers. She makes to pull away, so I tighten my grip and give a slight jerk of my chin in the direction of the bay.
“We want to sell this to them, don’t we?”
I counted six boats anchored out there earlier. Maybe there’s some asshole on the bow of one, a long-range camera lens angled this way.
“Yes, all right,” she whispers with a definitive nod. “But just so you know”—she leans in a little closer—“what happened before? That might be a regular occurrence in your life, but it isn’t in mine. Don’t go counting on it happening again.”
And they call themselves fucking friends, I think peevishly.
I like women. I enjoy their company—I can’t help that I’m popular with them. But the definition of player isn’t me, because I’m always straight from the start: I don’t play with people’s feelings.
“Of course,” I reply, a touch silkily. “There are no coat closets in the resort.”
She scowls, which just makes my smile a little wider.
I am so gonna make the most of this experience.
I know what the issue is. She’s embarrassed. Caught off guard and wondering what I’m doing here. What she’s doing here. I could see it earlier as she negotiated with Oliver, her fingertips white as she clung to elbows and her composure.
But I’m also aware of the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. And when I arrived, I saw her initial expression before embarrassment and reality set in.
So yes, I shaved. I shaved for her. And I’m counting on her being impressed (at least, on some level) that I have. I’d also settle for her guilt that I have, and I absolutely would take that guilt-ridden kiss.
Fuck, this is so trippy! Not just that she’s here, but this experience. One I never thought nor sought to have. A marriage means nothing. Changes nothing. Is nothing ... but an experience.
And I’m always down for new experiences.
A few muttered words, a kiss. Maybe a dance or two and an opportunity to make this gorgeous woman laugh again. And who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky. I tend to get lucky at weddings. Who wouldn’t get lucky at their own?
Mila’s brows knit. It looks like she’s having a whole conversation with herself. “I’d really rather you wouldn’t mention it again,” she says stiffly.
“Oh? Well, that’s kind of a shame, because I remember how soft your mouth is.” My hand lifts almost of its own volition, my thumb pressing her bottom lip in an echo of something I did all those months ago. I see she remembers too. I feel it in the sharp inhalation of breath—experience the sensation all the way to the marrow of my bones.
I swallow over a sudden tightness in my throat as something nudges me. A feeling. Not a hunch or premonition but something that feels more tangible. Inevitable somehow.
“This is nothing but a job for me,” she whispers.
“Sure.” I know that’s what she’s telling herself.
The priest murmurs something low, and we both turn to him, the white of his dress momentarily dazzling. He wears no cassock or chasuble. Just a plain white shirt, a sarong, and a folded udeng headdress, but he’s no less devout. No less serene, and though his face is creased with age, he seems to shine from within.
“What did he just say?” Mila whispers, her tone low and sweet.
“I don’t speak the language.”
I sense her gaze and turn to find her staring at me, her expression unimpressed.
“I thought you owned the resort?”
“I also have shares in a sushi franchise, but I don’t speak Japanese.”
“Stop bickering,” Sarai hisses, appearing by the priest’s side. Hands together, she ducks a quick bow in his direction, murmuring something with a low deference. “You’ve been invited to kneel by our priest. So get low,” she adds with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “Time to bond with the earth.”
“On the floor?” Mila sounds alarmed.
“That’s generally where the earth is.” The younger woman points to the royal blue pillows set at our feet. “But you get one of those. She’ll need your arm,” she adds, her gaze cutting my way.
“My hand?”
“Arm. Like an anchor. Her dress is a little—”
“Constricting,” Mila puts in as her fingers fold around my forearm like pale-pink talons. “What’s one more unanticipated aspect of this piece of foolishness,” she mutters.
“That’s the spirit,” I say through a low chuckle.
Mila angles her head my way with a glare. “I hope you’ve got decent upper body strength.”
“Something wrong with your memory?” My words are a treacle-dripped drawl.
She pauses in the act of adjusting the hem of her dress, but she doesn’t look up. Not that this hides the delicious hue that flushes across her cheeks. Then, using my forearm as a counterbalance, she begins to lower herself.
“Thank you,” she mutters.
“You can use me however you want,” I murmur under my breath. I’m never going to complain about a woman getting on her knees in front of me.
“Do you two know each other?” Sarai is narrow eyed with suspicion.
“No.” Mila sends me a warning glare. “Only from earlier.”
I seem to forget to reply as I stare down at her. That view. I’m so ridiculously aroused and maybe just ridiculous, because I’ve never been jealous of a dress before.
Movement catches my eye. Sarai folding gracefully to her knees.
“What are you doing?” Mila whisper hisses.
“I’m gonna translate.”
She’s an enterprising girl, this one. I bet she’s getting paid for this, along with the money Oliver offered her to help Mila. To keep an eye on her, more like.
My gaze moves back to Mila. My bride, the picture of innocence dressed in virginal tones and a veil. She’s the image of serenity, her lashes lowered in a dark sweep, her cheeks and lips rosy.
“Are you going to stand there all day, staring?” she suddenly snipes.
I might, given the view.
“Just for you,” I murmur, folding next to her. She smells like jasmine as I close my eyes briefly, searing the vision of her behind my eyelids. “You know what they say. ‘Happy wife, happy life.’”
Her brows lower, but her retort is cut off as a bell chimes, its vibration ringing through the otherwise still air. Our attention shifts to the priest as he begins to chant, the sound low and melodic. The bell chimes again.
“We ring this holy bell to summon good spirits,” Sarai declares over its echo. “And to announce this wedding to our deities.” Her hands pressed together, she reverently lifts them to her forehead.
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand once again—only, this time, a lightning bolt of sensation spears down my spine. What the fuck?
The priest’s expression is radiant and his voice is resonant as he returns to his incantation.
“We burn bamboo to cleanse these two souls,” Sarai explains as she lifts three thin stalks of bamboo from a woven basket. “And to banish evil spirits and remove past sins.”
“I hear they might need more bamboo for you,” Mila murmurs not quite under her breath.
Sarai frowns. I feel myself do the same.
“Oh!” Next to me, my pseudobride startles as the holy man flicks water over her head.
“That’s what you get for having impure thoughts,” I counter with a quiet chuckle. I can practically feel the heat of her scowl.
I bow my head as the priest moves to me, repeating the action, water droplets falling on my shoulders and head.
“It’s obviously not holy water,” Mila mutters. “You didn’t melt.”
“I think that’s wicked witches, not wicked men.”
“At least you own it,” she retorts huffily.
“And you liked it,” I reply, quieter still. “You liked it a whole lot.”
“ We seek the blessings of the benevolent divine .” This Sarai delivers through gritted teeth and with a look that’s meant to quell. “Get it together, you two,” she hisses as the priest momentarily turns his back to us.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Mila murmurs serenely.
“Neither.” My eyes catch hers, and she gives in to a reluctant smile.
Before anything else can be said, the priest turns back. His words rise and fall like a soft ocean swell as he takes my left hand, pressing Mila’s right atop it, palm to palm. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her fingers slide between mine, and, our hands clasped, he begins to bind our wrists in a satin-soft cord.
“We tie you together to symbolize the joining of your lives,” Sarai says, her voice following the priest’s chanting in a spoken round. “We ask the divine bestow their grace on you both as your paths merge into one.”
Mila’s dark gaze rises to mine, and like the flash of a car’s passing headlight, I find my thoughts briefly illuminated.
Two paths merging into one. Like it’s meant to be.