Chapter 8
JORDAN
Baylee
Why is your location turned off?
Are you up to something?
Mom wants to know where you are. She says she’s been texting all morning and you’re not answering. She wants to know if you can put her in contact with some of the donors so she can send thank-you notes.
Ok, Jord. Now I’m starting to get worried. Why aren’t you answering?
Jordan
Everything is fine. I’m alive. I ran off to Maui with Libby Bennet. I’ll tell you about it tonight.
Baylee
Funny.
Jordan
*Sends picture of the beach*
Baylee
Whut.
JORDAN ATKINSON WHAT IS GOING ON?
Jordan
Chill, Baylee.
Trust me, everything is fine. Don’t tell Mom. I’ll explain everything later. Promise.
Baylee
You’ll explain everything right now.
Jordan.
Jordan.
JORDAN.
I cringe at the sheer amount of buzzing going on in my pocket. I trust Baylee won’t tell Mom anything, but based on the number of texts I’m getting, she’s going to be very angry when I finally call her to tell her I eloped with Libby.
Someone strikes up a soft melody on a violin, and I look up to see Libby walking in the sand toward me and the officiant. We’re waiting for her under a beachwood arch draped in white material and a few pink flowers. It’s simple but beautiful.
I force myself not to think about how much Baylee is freaking out or what my mom’s going to say when she finds out about this, and watch Libby move toward me.
Floating would really be the right word.
She’s so gorgeous, but it’s not just that.
For all her doubts about this plan, there’s an inner strength that radiates from her.
Every time I’ve touched her, it’s been a huge exercise in self-control not to take it one more step—a real kiss on the plane instead of that bare brush of lips, folding her into my arms while she slept instead of keeping just an arm around her, taking control earlier and showing her a real kiss, especially since our practice efforts were bordering on comical.
Libby’s determination is irresistible. It might be her strict displays of affection rules, making her forbidden, that has me wanting to push boundaries, but I think I like her. Really like her.
Is it too late to ask her on a date now that we’re about to get married?
She’s wearing a long, white linen beach dress with loose sleeves and a deep neckline.
She’s breathtaking. Her social media following is going to go crazy over the pictures we’ll release of this next week.
I mean, they’re already going nuts over the bare hints that there might be something between us. They speculate about everything.
Libby’s hair is pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, with a couple long curls framing her face. She’s holding a simple bouquet of lilies, and the slight smile on her lips as she stares at me is almost believable.
I can see in her eyes that she’s freaking out a little.
Only … I don’t think it’s just because we’re getting married. She’s settled so easily every time I remind her that this is a business deal that we have to put a little flair on. Her moments of fear come when I get too close.
Unease roils around in my stomach at that.
Given her profession, she’s probably seen so much in the last several years as an advocate for abused women.
It’s no wonder she’s wary of every touch and every look when she hardly knows me.
I wish I could figure out how to make her see that I’ll always be gentle and understanding with her.
She reaches me then. She hands off her bouquet to a woman I don’t know and then slips her hands into mine, squeezing and smiling up at me.
“You good?” I bend over her, leaning close like I’m whispering something sweet. That’s what the cameras will see.
“I’m good.” She squeezes my hands again. Though her eyes are wary, her expression is relaxed.
On instinct, I kiss her forehead, then cringe as I pull away. I didn’t ask or warn her, something that usually makes her nervous. “Sorry,” I whisper.
She smiles up at me. “It’s fine,” she mouths.
We’ve discussed that affection when we have an audience needs to be natural and not forced.
Even though our only audience is the officiant, the photographer, the videographer, and the woman who took the bouquet (I think she’s Libby’s assistant), the photos of this wedding will be for millions. We have to look like we’re in love.
But most important to me is Libby knowing I hear her when she sets a boundary. I have to resist the temptation to hold her every time I want to. But I will resist, for her.
Libby turns to the officiant and nods that we’re ready to begin. We keep holding hands as the man welcomes us. Guilt brings heat to my cheeks for the first time as he gives a brief opening about the special bond between a husband and a wife.
I remind myself this is part of the show, clips that will be shown on TV. It’s like a movie we’re playing parts in. Like I keep saying—a unique business deal we’ve made.
He quickly moves to the vows as sunlight sparkles off the water behind us.
Libby asked that he keep it simple, traditional, and short.
“Jordan, do you take Libby to be your wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death parts you?”
To have and to hold. My heart thumps, and something warms in my chest.
I stare down at Libby, hoping she doesn’t see any of this in my expression. “I do.” My voice is low, husky.
She swallows, not breaking my gaze as the officiant repeats the vow for Libby.
“I do,” she says, voice strong. Of course. She’s spent most of her life playing for the cameras.
“By the authority vested in me by the State of Hawaii, I pronounce you, Jordan Atkinson and Libby Bennet, husband and wife, legally and lawfully wedded.” He grins at both of us, his expression a little bit mischievous as he finishes, “You may kiss the bride.”
I look down at Libby. We’re supposed to be so in love we ran off to get married. This can’t be a little peck. It has to be a real kiss. It was a mess earlier, but bad dress rehearsals mean a good show, right?
I lean down over her. I’m prepared to show her the chemistry I know is here. “Ready?” I murmur.
“Mmm-hmm.” She’s already standing on her tiptoes, waiting.
“Don’t think,” I whisper gently. “Close your eyes and let me take the lead.”
“Okay,” she whispers back.
I wrap an arm around her waist to hold her to me. To have and to hold.
I slide my other hand gently up her cheek, and she tilts her head into it.
Then she stills, like I asked her, and waits for me.
I lower my lips to hers, the lightest press of our lips.
There’s no bumping noses this time, no confusion.
I move slowly, giving her the opportunity to break contact at any time.
Everything quiets around me as I simply hold her close and breathe her in. The ocean waves create a soft backdrop.
Then she responds, as though she can’t help it. Not the awkward grasping at control like before—an automatic reaction. She slides her hands up my chest and wrapping them around my neck. She kisses me this time, deeper than before.
I’ve lost track of what’s real and what’s for the camera. I have no idea where the line is. I could hold Libby forever like this. If we had gone on a real date after meeting at the fundraiser, I would have ended the night with a kiss like this. A kiss that said there were possibilities ahead of us.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket.
“Jordan?” Libby whispers, pulling back to eye me, confused.
“Turning off my location seems to have created some questions for my sister,” I mutter.
“You turned off your location?” Libby’s eyebrows jump with incredulity. The tender moment between us fizzles just like that, and unfortunately, there’s relief in Libby’s expression as we break apart.
The officiant claps and congratulates us, but we barely hear him.
“Yeah,” I say, turning to face the photographer with a fake smile. “Didn’t you? I thought we were keeping this a secret.”
Libby grabs my hand and gently tugs me back down the aisle, grinning like she’s ecstatic to have just tied the knot with me. “I told them I was taking a last-minute trip to Hawaii.” Her tone sounds like, Of course.
I hold back a snort of laughter. “That would’ve made my family ask more questions.”
Libby keeps her smile on as the photographer and videographer circle around us. “I thought you were going to tell your sister about this.” She stresses “this,” insinuating the fake part of the marriage. She laughs, as though we’re joyous, giddy in each other’s company.
“I figured I should wait until after we’d done it. Otherwise Baylee would have tried to talk me out of it.” Even with the videographer, that’s safe to say. Totally normal for a family member to want to talk sense into their brother, running off to get married to a woman he barely knows.
“Maybe she should have,” Libby mutters, but she’s still smiling for the cameras, so I don’t know what to make of it.
“Okay, that’s enough,” she announces. “We’re going to go change.
” She puts just enough implication into the word to make our small audience chuckle—and immediately put down the cameras.
What I would’ve given for that kind of command over the press when I was playing hockey.
Press conference getting uncomfortable? Shut it down.
Reporters asking dumb questions I don’t want to answer?
Shut it down. And she did it so effortlessly, without making them feel bad for doing their jobs.
She’s incredible.
We hold hands as we make our way up the beach to the house Libby rented for us for a few days before we head back to Houston. When we get inside, Libby goes around shutting curtains and blinds.