CHAPTER TWELVE
Gizmo
T here’s silence on the other side of the door.
Silence that a part of me wishes remains—that she bolted without looking back—while the other part of me knows this is how I redeem myself in the eyes of the judge.
Both are shitty prospects.
Both have my heart perfectly lodged in my throat regardless of how nonchalant I’m playing this shit.
“Yeah, I’m here,” she finally says on the other side of the door.
I’m not sure why I breathe a sigh of relief, but I do. She didn’t leave . “You okay?” I ask.
“Terrified,” she answers as she pulls open the door.
I lose my words. My thoughts. My senses.
Hendrix Wright stands before me in a sheath of ivory, the sun at her back like a halo around her hair, and those expressive hazel eyes begging me for an escape I can’t give her.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
And feeling vulnerable if that look on her face is any indication.
Hell, if seeing my pretend wife standing in front of me like this doesn’t move me in ways it shouldn’t.
“Wow,” I finally say as she stands there staring at me. “You look... stunning. You are stunning.”
A smile flutters over her pale painted lips as her hands smooth down the fabric at her stomach. “Really? You’re okay with this choice? It’s okay for your image—”
“Yes.” I step into the room without asking and set down the bag in my hand, my eyes glued to her as I take her in. “Most definitely yes.”
“Whew. I was nervous. Am nervous . I got here and there were all these people and all this stuff”—she waves her hands around at the chaos of the room— “but I didn’t see you and that made it harder and me more anxious and then I was alone with just my thoughts and... yeah.” She blows out a heavy sigh as her cheeks stain pink.
There’s something about her little rants that I love. On anyone else they’d come across as crazy and yet with Hendrix, they’re adorable. She is adorable.
“I’m sorry. I had things to finish back home before I hopped on the jet. They ran long.”
“Oh my gosh. Look at you,” she says and holds her hands out to me. “You look so handsome.”
“I clean up okay,” I say.
“Yeah, but you have on a tux.”
“A tux is a tux is a tux. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”
“I know, but you wore one. For this .” Her brow furrows and I can see what she’s not saying. For me .
That prick really did a number on her, didn’t he?
“Well, if you have to wear a dress, then it’s the least I can do.”
“True. Yes. But... thank you .” She smiles softly and moves to the wall of windows that overlooks the Strip down below.
It’s weird—I barely know this woman yet I feel close to her. Maybe it’s because she’s endearing. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to worry about impressing her as this is simply business. Or maybe it’s because we’re both about to be thrown into the same fire and so we share a mutual bond no one else might understand. Whatever it is, the feeling has me walking over to her, standing beside her, and linking my fingers with hers.
I don’t know if I expect her to yank her hand back, but I’m relieved when she doesn’t.
“How did we get here, huh?” I murmur.
“By plane,” she says and we both bark out a nervous laugh at the ridiculous comment. “Sorry. I crack jokes when I’m freaking out. Which I am by the way—freaking out. It’s not you though. It’s... everything else.”
“But it is me. I’m the reason you’re here.”
“Yes, but I like you. It’s the everything else that’s daunting.”
“Define everything else?”
“What is my mom going to say? To think? How is my life going to change? What if we fumble when we kiss at the altar and people can tell it’s the first time we’ve ever done it? I’ve told everyone—well, my friends and family—that I’ve sworn off men for a year because of Paul, and now I turn around and get married?” She blows out a shaky sigh that ends in a self-deprecating chuckle and then throws her hands up. “What if, what if, what if?”
I nod slowly. I know she can see it in her periphery, but she doesn’t turn or say anything else. “For the record, I’m freaking out too but am well aware being unpredictable is part of my nature. Wanting to get anywhere near a justice of the peace for a wedding is not however.”
“Great, so we’ll both shock the shit out of everyone while having mild heart attacks ourselves.”
I chuckle. “You’re funny.”
“I’m serious.”
I squeeze her fingers. “Should we do some shots to ease our nerves?”
“You have alcohol?” She turns to look at me with wide, hopeful eyes.
“In the bag.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder. “I came prepared.”
“Yes. Please.” If relief was audible, it would be those two words. “I’m good with prepared.”
Within a few minutes, I have the bottle of tequila opened and poured into two shot glasses.
“You know it’s bad luck to see your bride before the ceremony, right?” she asks as she takes the shot glass I slide across to her.
“Good thing we already know how this is going to turn out.” I smile, hold my glass up, and tap it against hers. “To our impending divorce.”
“To no future,” she adds.
“To life after you’re the wife I never dreamed of.”
She laughs. “Touché, husband who’s definitely not my type.”
“No?” I quirk a brow. Not her type ?
“No.”
“Cheers,” I say seconds before we toss back the shots. While she might down it like a pro, the hiss she emits after, and her pinched expression that follows, has me laughing.
“Jesus.” It must taste like battery acid from her expression, but then she holds her glass back out to me. “I think I need another.”
And that has me laughing even harder. This woman is... she’s something else. “Okay. One more. Then that’s it. The last thing we need to be is glassy-eyed and shitfaced no matter how welcome the idea sounds at the moment.”
“Party pooper,” she says, sticking out her bottom lip.
And if I had to guess, she might already be feeling the effects of the alcohol. Lightweight .
“No. Just making sure my soon-to-be wife can stand.”
“Pour the shot, Gizmo.” She slides her glass in front of me, her eyes holding and challenging mine until I do just that. “I can handle a lot more than you think.”
Let’s hope so.
I nod and do as she asks. No doubt I can drink her under the table, but we’re not going to get to that point today no matter how much I want to.
“What are we toasting to this time?” I ask. She starts to say something and then throws her head back and laughs. “What?” My elbows are on the counter but my glass is being held up, waiting for her.
“Fuck you, Paul,” she says with a devilish smirk that lights up her eyes.
“Yeah. Fuck you, Paul. You don’t have a clue what you’re missing.” I wink, tap my glass against hers, and then down the shot.
I welcome the burn. It slides nicely over whatever emotions that look of—surprise, compassion, gratitude—she just gave me conjured up.
“I’m supposed to be a good influence on you.” She slides the empty shot glass across the counter so it clinks against the tequila bottle. “Guess I already failed before we even started.”
“I live in the failure zone so we’re all good.”
“What does that mean?” she asks, head angled to the side and those perfect fucking lips parted.
“A lot. A little. Nothing that should be talked about today of all days. We’ll leave my faults for you to discover during our short and disastrous marriage.”
The words come out but the inadequacies of my life blare in my own mind. The shortcomings I’m reminded of daily. My dad. My mom. My band... who I’ve let down repeatedly.
“Failure makes you who you are,” she murmurs, her smile falling. “Or at least that’s what my mom says, and we’re not talking about her since I’m about to shock the hell out of her with this one.”
“That was a lot of what ifs you had,” I murmur as I pour myself one more shot and down it without asking her if she wants one. “And don’t worry, I’ll charm the pants off your mom so she’ll overlook your vow to not touch a man for a year.”
“You will, will you?”
“I will. I’m that good.”
She laughs as I move around the counter so that I’m near her—there’s this inherent need that makes me want to be. It must be the shots or the small insight I gave her about me when I never give it to anyone, but the urge to kiss her, to show her how beautiful she is when she’s clearly nervous, is stronger than I’d like to admit.
“What else were you nervous about?” I lean my ass against the counter beside her. “How is your life going to change?”
“A lot.” She laughs nervously.
“Perhaps. I’ll insulate you as much as possible. You may have signed up to do this, but not to manage the crazy that comes along with it.”
“Okay.” She bites her bottom lip again.
“If it ever gets to be too much, you need to tell me. To clue me in. The crazy is enough to break someone, and the last thing I need or want is you broken by it, okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
She says the words but has no clue what it’s like with the spotlight and the world’s attention on her. Nor do I want her to.
“Your other what if, about people not believing this, us, because you swore off Paul. People change their minds. Apparently love comes when you’re least looking for it—according to whoever said that. Who knew that when I came in to buy some cookies from you I’d become totally smitten with you? Do you know the agony I felt over those few weeks when you were Paul’s and all I wanted was for you to be mine?” I flash a grin, rather proud of myself for this scenario. “The day I walked back in the bakery to find you crying over the asshole cheating on you was the best day of my life.”
She rolls her eyes. “No one’s going to believe that. And no one is smitten after one meeting.”
I laugh and reach back for the bag behind me. “They will and this is proof that I can see something and become smitten with it.”
“I don’t follow.”
I pull the ring box from the bag and her startled gasp is about how I felt when I bought the damn thing. “It’s not a wedding without a ring, right?” Why am I suddenly nervous ? “I tried to pick something practical for you since you’re always using your hands in the bakery. Something that didn’t have a high profile and wouldn’t get dough and icing stuck in it or snag gloves if you wear them—”
“You thought of all that?”
“Of course. I want my wife to wear her ring,” I tease but damn if those words don’t have my stomach flipping as I open the box and hand it to her.
She gasps, her eyes flying up to meet mine and then back to the cushion-cut oval diamond centered in the middle of an infinity band of other diamonds. “Jase. It’s—”
“Understated.”
“Far from it. It’s stunning. Gorgeous . . . whoa .”
She reaches out to run a finger over the band where it’s nestled in the box. The ring is spectacular but small in comparison to other celebrity wives’ standards and yet... something about it called to me, much like Hendrix did. It’s understated—possibly normally overlooked—but is elegant and classy. It screamed unique and genuine, and from the short time I’ve known Hendrix, it seems to fit her.
I’m not sure why it was so important for me to get it for her when I could’ve simply bought a solitaire something or other, but it was.
“Here. Let’s put it on you,” I say and take the ring out of the box. We both inhale shaky breaths as I slide it on her finger and it fits perfectly.
“ Oh ,” she says, but I have a feeling that oh stands for oh shit . Oh my God. What the hell are we about to do? How do we stop this train?
Truth be told, I didn’t know how to give her the ring. Just like the same situation with a formal ceremony—I probably won’t, but just in case I do plan to lower to my knee one day—I didn’t want to think of this moment here. The pretend engagement. So I decided to just hand it to her to put on herself but right now it feels ridiculously inadequate and callous.
Maybe that’s why I bought her the present—to make up for it. It has to be.
“I also got you something else to go with your dress.”
“Jase. The dress, the pampering, is more than enough.” She keeps staring at her hand and the ring now on her finger.
“Shush.” I tear my eyes off the ring and up to the discord dancing in hers. “But I saw it and thought you’d like it. That it would go with whatever dress you picked out.” I pull a second jewelry box out. “Turn around for me.”
She holds my gaze for a second but then does as I ask. I’m hard-pressed not to notice how delicate her shoulders and the curve of her neck are as she does so. How smooth her skin is or how incredible her light flowery scent smells.
I lift the multi-stoned diamond tennis necklace over her head, until it rests on her neck, and then fasten it at her nape. Goosebumps chase over her skin and fuck if the sight of them doesn’t tell me everything I need to know.
My touch does to her what everything about her does to me. Affected.
Hands off, Jase. Don’t fuck this up. You made promises to Nathaniel. Promises to yourself.
She reaches up to run her fingers over the stones of the necklace. “This is completely unnecessary,” she says as she turns to face me. “This is too... much.” Her voice fades as we come face-to-face and well within each other’s personal space.
I never noticed the flecks of gold in the hazel of her eyes or the subtle scar just below the hairline of her forehead. And I sure as hell never thought a hitch in someone’s breath could sound sexy and yet here we are.
I smile and reach out to run my fingertip over the necklace much like she did. “It looks good on you.” My finger trails off the necklace to her skin.
“Thank you.” She’s breathless.
Fuck .
And close.
“And there’s only one way to see about that other what if of yours.” I lean in closer, my hand moving to rest on the side of her neck, her pulse fluttering beneath my hand as I brush my thumb back and forth over her jawline.
“Which one is that?”
“If we can pull off the kiss.”
“Oh.” Her throat jumps beneath my hand as she swallows. “I took a theater class in high school. We had to—I can do the pretend way.”
“Pretend way?”
“Yes. No tongue.” She can barely get the words out.
“Uh-huh.” I lick my lips but am too busy staring at hers. She thinks there isn’t going to be tongue in this kiss? That I’m not going to steal a taste of her like some bullshit B-list actor? She’s fucking crazy.
I brush my lips against hers. Once. Twice. My body hums with desire that’s only natural when you kiss someone.
And then she emits the softest sound in the back of her throat. Something about it owns me and begs me to hear it again.
I dip my tongue between her parted lips and deepen the kiss. My free hand slides to the small of her back and pulls her into me while the other remains on the side of her neck.
She tastes like sin and regret. Like surrender and restraint running a race. Like necessity and indulgence warring against one another.
Stop, Giz.
The two words repeat in my mind.
This isn’t real.
But her taste is as addicting as I imagined it would be.
When I break the kiss, when I force myself to step back, the only sound in the room is our labored breaths.
And my sudden desire for more.
“Great. Perfect. Guess we proved we could pull it off,” Hendrix says in a rush of words as she steps away from me and moves about the room. She picks up an empty water bottle. She fluffs a pillow on the couch. She clears her throat a time or ten. And she infuses cheer into her voice when I can hear the raw unacceptance of what just happened—a kiss for the fucking ages. “Just like theater class.”
I throw my head back and laugh.
Thoughts of dragging her back against me fill my head. Ones of messing up her hair and tangling up the sheets a close second after. Ones of proving just how wrong she is about fucking theater class.
Instead, I adjust my hard-on in my pants, grab the bottle of tequila by the neck, and take a swig straight from the bottle.
It’s going to be a long four months.
Torturously long.