12. Lisa
Twelve
Lisa
I wake up parched, ruined, and sore in places your girl has not been sore since the Obama administration, and when I try to stretch, my arms file a formal complaint and refuse to cooperate.
I’m alone in the bed. Alone in bed, comforter up to my chin. It’s after noon , and you, ma’am, slept like a woman who got thoroughly handled .
I open my eyes. Imelda is on the pillow next to me, watching me like I personally insulted her bloodline by sleeping this long.
“Hi, baby.”
Slow blink. Pure judgment.
I try to sit up. My body laughs at me. So I roll on my side instead, and Lord …the ache. It’s not the bad kind of ache. It’s the good one. The kind that runs from the soles of your feet up through your hips and lands somewhere filthy…
His mouth. The counter. “ I’m puttin’ a fuckin’ baby in ye.” The way he carried me. The hall. The bed. His hands, his cock, and my wife growled between his teeth like a threat and a vow all at once, and…
Marry me, Lisa.
I freeze.
Marry me, Lisa.
I said yes.
I said yes.
I sit up straight. The comforter drops; I’m still in yesterday’s wrecked dress. I look down at my hand and…
Oh! Oh!
Oh, Adam Maksimov, you absolute deranged Scottish psycho!
There’s a rock on my left hand. A ROCK. A diamond the size of a knuckle, set in a thick gold band, and it’s on my finger. This thing has apparently been on my finger for hours, and I only just clocked it.
I stare at it, open my mouth, and close it. Open it again. Nothing comes out but a laugh…wet and startled, and half a sob, a what the entire fuck is my life laugh, bubbling out of me until I’m bent over my knees cackling. Imelda flicks her tail at me in disgust, and I cackle harder.
I said yes to a Scottish lunatic. Then I fell asleep, and the man went and got me a huge-ass diamond. Lord. Lord. LORD.
My laughter dies down.
The ring is heavy. HEAVY! This thing is a boulder. I stare at it until the staring turns to crying. The good kind…the kind that shows up when something happens to you that you didn’t know you were allowed to have.
That’s when I hear a noise. Voices. In my house. Many voices. Female, male, the thud of something heavy dragged across the foyer, somebody hollering by the staircase, someone else yelling back, got it, a vacuum running, and…is that a hammer?
I scramble out of bed. My legs would like a word about that… I grab the bedpost, and Imelda watches with the look of a cat who’s known her human was a fool for a while and is delighted I’m finally caught up.
I crack the door open.
I hear music. Something classical drifting up the stairs. And a woman on the phone… yes, the white peonies, a hundred more of the small white roses, we need them by two …and somebody yelling for a Marcus, Marcus yelling back from somewhere in the house.
I close the door and sit back down.
That motherfucker. He did this. He let me sleep half the day. Put his rock on my finger. And he’s out there somewhere in the city running his terrifying empire, and he sent strangers in my house to… to do… things!
My door bangs open.
“MAMA!” Jasmine yells.
She’s in the doorway with her hair in a towel, a facemask on. And she’s vibrating!
“MAMA, OH MY GOD!”
“Baby…”
“GET UP! Get up, Mom! You’re getting married in like hours!”
“What?!”
“Adam said you said yes! When I came home, he sat me down all serious like, Jazzy, yer mother said aye, the weddin’s tonight, can ye walk her doon?
” Despite my shock, I almost giggle at her imitation of his deep voice and accent.
“I nearly hit the floor, and now there’s a florist and an officiant coming over… GET UP!”
She’s yanking my hand.
“Jasmine.”
“Get up, Mom!”
“ Jasmine. ”
She stops, her eyes fall on our joined hands and the ring, and her whole face changes. My girl sinks down next to me and lifts my hand.
“Mama.”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Look at this thing. ”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“I can’t even…”
“I know, baby.”
She starts crying. So I start crying again…because of course … And we sit on the edge of the bed, hearing a vacuum going somewhere downstairs, with a Scottish maniac’s diamond on my finger. My baby, sobbing, and Imelda judging us both from her throne, aka my pillow.
Jasmine wipes her face, sniffling.
“Are you happy?”
I look at the ring, then at my sweet girl
“Yes, baby.” It comes out shaky. “I’m happy.”
She throws herself at my neck, squeezing tight, then yanks herself back .
“You’re getting married in hours , Ma.”
“…apparently.”
“We need to go! ”
There’s another knock and a woman in a black blazer opens my door without waiting… she’s holding a clipboard, wearing a headset, and has the face of someone who’s run a hundred weddings, never once let one collapse, and is not about to start with mine.
“Mrs. Maksimov.”
I make a strangled sound.
“I’m Beth, your wedding planner.” She smiles.
A real one. Like she’s actually happy to be here, part of this craziness.
“I’m sorry, but we’re on a schedule and we’re slightly behind.
You have hair and makeup at three, then your dress, and the ceremony at sunset.
Anything you need before we get started? ”
I let out a huff of laughter.
“Coffee, maybe?”
Beth winks. “On its way.” Then she steps out and closes the door.
Jasmine and I exchange a look.
“Go shower, Ma.”
I nod and go get in the shower.
* * *
I don’t have words for the next few hours.
It’s a whirlwind of bath, hair, delicious food brought over on trays, coffee…
thank you, Beth, you terrifying angel. The florist comes up to ask, peonies or small roses, while a woman pins up my hair.
Half up, in soft curls that fall around my face.
I look in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back.
She’s fucking beautiful, and her eyes are shining with… pure joy.
Lord. That’s me. That’s been me the whole damn time, and life just had me locked up where I couldn’t see her.
I’m crying again. The hair lady smiles kindly, dabs my eyes and tells me the makeup artist in on her way, and to let it all out before she gets here. I let it ALL out.
* * *
My dress is on a padded hanger in the bathroom. Jasmine drags me to it. She’s dressed in a blush-pink silk gown. My baby looking so grown I have to swallow hard to keep it together.
It’s ivory, soft, with long, lacy sleeves. The neck framing my collarbones. Gorgeous, elegant. Grown and sophisticated. Exactly what I’d have chosen if somebody gave me fucking time to prepare my own wedding.
He picked this incredible dress. In what, twelve hours? And I know it’s going to fit because the Mad Scot doesn’t miss.
“Mama,” Jasmine says. “You’re gonna floor him in this.”
I bark out a laugh. How the fuck is this my life?!
* * *
I don’t see Adam. I just know he’s out there behind a wall of peonies, and I’m at the back of the house with my arm through Jasmine’s, looking at a backyard I do not recognize.
With lights strung through the trees, hundreds of them.
And a path of white petals spread over the freshly cut grass .
There’s an arch under the oak tree that’s overflowing with peonies, roses, and some beautiful blue flowers I can’t name.
A row of stylish white chairs at the front, two holding our entire guest list: Kostya in a black suit, and Beth at his side. That’s it. That’s the whole party.
And at the front, under the arch, is Adam.
He turns. And oh. My freaking fiancé’s wearing a black three-piece tux, looking sharp as a fucking blade, perfectly tailored for his massive shoulders, that chest, and those thighs…
like the fabric was fucking poured on him.
Paired with a black bow tie, a white pocket square.
His lush hair, brushed back, beard neatly trimmed, his blue eyes incredible.
Lord have mercy, this man cleans up like nobody’s business!
And his face when he sees me is unhinged with joy.
The Mad Scot of Edinburgh, standing under a flower arch in my back garden, grinning like a damn fool, that wicked mouth pulled so fucking high I let out a laugh, shaking my head.
One of his hands is fisting and stretching at his side like he’s physically restraining himself from coming up the petal path to get me.
His eyes drag from the lace at my wrists to the satin at my hips to the curls around my face.
Making me feel warm all over. Heart full, and light, and blooming. Nipples hard, clit tingling.
This is not a man at his wedding. This is a man at the start of his wedding night. I can literally hear him in my head: mine! Cannae wait to get my hands on ye, lass .
Jasmine squeezes my arm, whisper-shouting, “Mama, he looks hot!”
“ Jas’! ”
“He does, Ma, I’m sorry, he really does.”
I giggle, checking her with my hip.
Adam’s grin doesn’t dim as I come down the path. It grows. Every step feeds it. The man is going to dislocate his jaw. I’m laughing and crying. He’s fucking radiant.
Jasmine kisses my cheek and steps back, and Adam takes my hand out of hers, both his palms warm around mine. His thumb runs over the rock he put on me, and his grin softens.
“There she is. The soon-to-be Mrs. Maksimov.”
Sweet baby Jesus.
Mrs. Maksimov. In his low, gravelly burr, with the sun setting around us, in this tux, with fairy lights in the trees, and my baby with us.
My knees buckle, of course, asshole catches it, and grins wider.
The officiant says words. I catch almost none of them. I catch do you and say I do , and I listen intently as Adam repeats it low and rough, his brogue thicker than I’ve ever heard it.
The man pronounces us, and Adam’s grin breaks into a laugh…real, deep, and he hauls me into his chest and kisses me. Right there, under the arch, in front of my daughter, Kostya, Beth, and the officiant.
He kisses me the way he’s kissed me from the start.
Like he’s climbing inside me through my mouth.
Like I’m his. His hand slides off my face to the small of my back and settles low…
the kind of low a man’s hand goes when he’s already thinking about the dress coming off…
and his mouth moves at the corner of mine, hot and smiling, just for me.
“My wife.”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“My fuckin’ wife. Lisa Maksimov. Mine. ”
“Yes, Adam.”
“Cannae wait tae get ye oot this dress, love.” His accent is so strong now, I barely understand the words, and I laugh against his mouth, and the Mad Scot dips his head and kisses me again. Deeper. Slower. Filthier.
I’m married. I’m married to Adam fucking Maksimov.