5. Skylar
SKYLAR
As soon as I peel my eyes open, I sense it.
Something is off—not necessarily wrong, just different.
My eyes scan the room as the haze of sleep starts to wear off.
My head is pounding, but that’s not unexpected.
I had all those shots of Fireball with Allie.
And then the champagne. Did I drink a whole bottle?
No, it was open when I swiped it from the table.
I can’t remember how full it was, though. Why can’t I remember?
Oh, that’s right, because I was being slowly chased through the restaurant by the ghost of high school past.
Declan. Oh God, Declan.
My mom texted again, and then I ran into him. Literally.
We talked outside.
I was nice to him. Too nice.
He gave me his jacket, and I told him about the accident, but that’s where things get murky.
Who the fuck did that to you?
I push back the covers and thankfully, I’m in my oversized Emberfield Lantern T-shirt and a pair of blue cotton panties—the same ones I wore last night.
At least I wasn’t so out of it that I fell asleep in my dress.
The relief from that realization is short-lived when my head throbs again, and I go to rub my temple.
The morning light peeking through my curtains catches something in my periphery—something metallic—and I immediately feel the weight of it on the finger poking out from the cast on my left hand.
Slowly, I bring my arm up like I’m crouching down to look under a bed, and I just know there's a monster lurking beneath. I know in the depths of my soul exactly what I’m going to find when my finger reaches my line of sight, so when it finally does, I shouldn’t be surprised.
My breath shouldn’t get caught in my throat.
My heart shouldn’t feel like it’s trying to hammer its way out of my body, but it is, and the whole room spins as I take in the twisted circle of metal sitting below the second knuckle on my ring finger.
It doesn’t all come rushing back in pieces.
No, the moment I lay eyes on that finger, it’s all just there in my head like it never left.
I remember the cigarette. I finally set free the anger that had been burning inside me from the moment he dared to ask about my injury like he gave a fuck.
And then came the words that stopped me dead in my tracks.
He didn’t even have to stand up from where he was sitting to pull me back to him. All he had to do was speak.
“Remember when you asked me to marry you?”
My hand freezes on the brassy knob of the door as the memory floods my brain.
All it takes is one string of gravelly words from his lips and I’m right back in that moment.
Sixteen with heart-shaped eyes staring at the dark-haired boy on a park bench like he hung the damn moon.
Only he doesn’t have dark hair—not anymore.
I turn back around thinking he might have stood up, but he’s still sitting, arms crossed, ankle slung lazily over his thigh.
“Declan,” I warn, with no real idea of what I’m warning him about.
“You wanted to smoke weed for the first time so badly. You practically begged me to get it for you,” he continues, dropping his cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with his shoe. “It only took like three puffs and you were high as a kite.”
“That’s the operative word, Declan. I was high out of my mind. So when I said—”
“That you wanted to marry me so we could have lots of little floppy-haired, freckled babies?” he finishes for me.
“I did not say that.”
“You did. Your eyes were all glassy and shit. Kind of like they are now. When you realized what you said, the sweetest little blush crept up your neck.”
“Fuck you, Declan,” I march over to where he’s still sitting as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “You gave up the right to those memories years ago.”
I expect him to argue back or maybe walk away now that he knows he can still get under my skin, but instead he nods as he takes another sip from his flask.
“You’re right, I did.” His index finger swirls around the opening of the metal bottle.
“But the thing is…” he trails off, bringing the flask to his lips again, closing his eyes as he takes a deep pull of whatever liquid is inside.
His Adam’s apple bobs as the drink slides down his throat, and my head swims. I don’t know if it’s from all the alcohol I’ve consumed tonight or the tension radiating between us.
Not that it matters. “The thing is,” he continues, the bottle making a slight clacking sound as he places it down on the table.
“I would marry you right here and now if you let me.”
I stare at him for a beat. Two. Three. Before a laugh bubbles out of me.
It’s so forceful, I have to bend down to grab my knees to keep from falling over.
When I finally regain my composure, I can see through watery eyes that he’s not laughing.
It wasn’t a joke meant for both of us. Which can only mean that he’s fucking with me.
It’s also at that exact moment that I realize something else.
Declan Astor will always have a hold on me.
I will never be rid of him because he claimed my heart, and I was the stupid girl who handed it over to him willingly.
Of course, he broke it. It was his to break.
And while the thought makes me want to crawl away from him with my tail tucked between my legs, it also makes me want to fuck with him right back.
Maybe it’s the liquid courage still coursing through my veins and clouding my judgment, but it occurs to me that if I can’t ever get over him, the least I can do is get a little revenge.
What if I called his bluff? Made him sweat and squirm for a little bit?
It wouldn’t cover even a tenth of what he put me through, but my Fireball-riddled brain doesn’t seem to care.
“Oh yeah?” I say sweetly, taking a few steps toward the table. “Then do it.”
His lips turn up into a grin, his eyes lethal in their intensity.
“We taking my private jet to Vegas or yours?” he asks, not allowing his gaze to stray from mine even for a second.
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. His family was loaded back in high school, his father owning one of the biggest acquisition companies on the Eastern Seaboard.
I can only imagine the wealth they’ve amassed since.
My father had money but not private jet money.
“No need,” I chirp, fishing my phone out of my purse.
“Lucky for us, Emberfield County recently rolled out a new online marriage license program. Apparently they’re trying to be ‘hip’ like Vegas.
” As I pull up the website that’s still bookmarked in my browser from the late-night research sessions I chose over sleep, I expect to see Declan’s face fall, but it doesn’t.
His gaze is steadfast, unrelenting. So much so that I have to look away.
I find the online application and bypass the five pages of warnings that completing this process will result in a legally binding marriage.
It won’t get that far, but he doesn’t know that. I need him to think that I’m not backing down. He wants to play games? Fine. But I refuse to be blindsided this time. No, this time, I’m going to have the last word.
Swiping over to the Spouse Number One section, I input all of my information, peeking over at Declan when I get to the part where I have to take a picture of my license. Still nothing. So I type my e-signature, scroll down to the Spouse Number Two section, and hand the phone to him.
“Your move,” I say.
He reaches out, brushing his fingers along mine as he takes the phone from me.
There’s no stalling. No hesitation as his thumbs fly over the phone screen, typing his information.
When he gets to the driver’s license part, he pins me with a smug look as he takes his wallet out of his jacket pocket.
The same jacket I was wearing earlier. The capture sound from him taking a picture of his license startles me, and then he’s placing the phone back in my hand.
“We need an officiant and two witnesses.”
Okay, I didn’t think we would get this far, but I’m not backing down now. He wants to keep playing this game? I’ll play.
“No problem,” I say, turning my back to walk toward the restaurant door. Glancing over my shoulder, I don’t miss the way he watches me.
It only takes me two minutes to spot Dan talking to a couple of interns inside.
Thankfully, Emory invited the entire staff of the Lantern.
Along with being our senior editor, Daniel Parker is also a world traveler, former minor league baseball player, and, most importantly, an ordained officiant in the state of Connecticut.
I’m not sure why or how that came up during his interview at the Lantern that I sat in on, but I’m glad it did.
After a little convincing and the promise of reinstating pizza Fridays at the paper, I’m leading Dan and the interns he was talking to out to the back patio.
Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover the mood that lingers in the air while we say our “vows” as Chase and Devon look on uneasily.
I’m sure they’re just happy to be at a party with free booze, and now they’ve been roped into a game of marriage chicken.
Clearly, these college interns can see right through the charade.
“Are there, um, rings?” Dan asks sheepishly.
I open my mouth to say “no” just as Declan clears his throat, shoving his hand into his pocket and producing a ring—no, not a ring—it looks like it’s the wire from the top of a champagne bottle. What do they call those things? Anyway, it’s been fashioned into a, yeah, I guess, a ring.
“Where did you get that?” I blurt, my confidence slipping.
“I made it.”
“You made it? When?”
“When you were looking for witnesses.”
I have to cover my mouth to keep from showcasing the smile that’s spreading across my lips because Declan Astor made me a wedding ring with his bare hands.
The gold wire has been bent and twisted into a circle to form the band, and at the top, it’s curled into a small spiral, like a knot.
It’s…beautiful. How did he even do that in the ten minutes it took me to coerce my office staff into performing a wedding ceremony?
Shaking the thought out of my head, I get back to the task at hand. I don’t know what Declan’s got up his sleeve, but I am seeing this through to the bitter end.
“You don’t have a ring,” I point out.
“Don’t need one.” He brings his right palm up to the left side of his chest, tapping it a couple of times, and I desperately want to know why, but at the same time I know it’s probably better if I don’t.
After we finish our “I do’s,” Dan pronounces us married (not until I hit the final submit button, Danny boy, don’t get ahead of yourself), and it comes out as more of a question when he looks at Declan and says that he can now kiss the bride.
I immediately wave him off, citing a nonexistent lack of time, and hand my phone over to Dan so he can go through the same process as Declan and me, inputting his info, e-signing, and uploading a picture of his license.
Under my watchful eye, Chase and Devon do the same.
I thank all three of them, and they file into the restaurant before I even finish speaking.
“Well, husband. It’s official. We’re hitched. Should we live at your house or mine? That is, if you’re not still living with your parents. That could get awkward,” I taunt.
“I have my own place here in Emberfield,” he says, stepping dangerously close.
“But we can live wherever you want.” Another step.
“As soon as you hit submit.” With that, he swipes my phone, seeing the giant red octagon at the top of the page with the word “STOP.” Beneath it, a slew of disclosures explains that submitting these documents makes the marriage legal immediately and triggers the mailing of a physical license.
However, having written an article on this website rollout, I know the process requires a second consent.
Pressing submit should only lead to a page where both parties upload video confirmations.
Declan doesn’t know that. I snatch the phone back and, looking him straight in the eye, I click the big red octagon.
Only they changed the process. My head continues to throb as the memory of last night kicks around in my brain. How could they change it after I went through all the trouble to write that dumb article to inform the public about it in the first place?
It only took seeing that one word for the entire outdoor patio to start spinning.
Congratulations.
When the spinning finally stopped, I stared at the screen for a good thirty seconds. I knew instantly there was no going back, but it didn’t stop me from pressing the back button. Several times. Furiously.
The last thing I remember is his voice. Calling to me.
Skylar
But it sounded like he was underwater. Or maybe I was.
I looked up at him, his deep amber-brown eyes shining with concern, and that was it. Did I pass out after that? How did I even get into bed?
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now because somewhere between my heartbroken rage and alcohol-fueled stupidity, I gave the man who destroyed me the power to do it again. Even worse, I married him.