Chapter 5
Peyton
“What about sex?” The bold question comes out of my mouth like a boulder that somehow gets stuck in his throat. As we sit waiting in an office for the justice of the peace to arrive, I watch his attempt to swallow but it ends in a cough.
“What?”
Wren and Hayes should be here any second, so I’m rushing the conversation that I realize we haven’t had but needs to be had. “We’re going to be married for what? A few months right? Just before the trade deadline…in case…you know…”
His glare shuts me up, and I still don’t know what to make of this rough and gruff side of Wendell.
“So what about the sex?” The sex. Not sure why it came out that way. I clasp my hands neatly in my lap to stop from fidgeting.
“I don’t expect anything.” His eyes and mouth soften. “It’s not like that.”
The racecars, otherwise known as my nerves, don’t like the sounds of that. “I know it would complicate things, but what are our options?”
He stares at me like I’m a book he’s trying to read. “What do you think our options are?” There. This is exactly the kind of question the old nice guy Wendell would ask.
“The options are limited.” I’m hoping he’ll jump in and list them, but when he doesn’t, I plow on. “One. We could abstain.”
In my pause he pipes up. “That’s fine.”
“Or, two, we could act like a married couple.” This time, in my pause he doesn’t answer, which, if I’m being honest, doesn’t feel all that great. “Three, we could have sex unexclusively—”
“Nope. That’s not happening.” He clears his throat and meets my eyes. “If we’re married and having sex, I’m the only sex you’re having.”
“What if we don’t like it?”
“Oh. You’ll like it.”
I can feel the blush rushing my cheeks like a stampede. “And you?”
“What about me?”
I gesture to no particular part of him but it happens to be around his groin area. “What if you don’t like it?”
His pupils dilate and he rasps, “I’ll like it.”
“But—”
“If for any insane reason” —he leans over the arm of his chair toward me— “one of us doesn’t like it, we’ll practice until we’re both obsessed with it.”
“Right.” I duck my head and reflect on the color of my socks. Are they the same red as my cheeks?
“Good?”
“Yup.”
“Good,” I mumble.
“Good.”
And we’re apparently all good just before the JP comes into his office. Only a few moments later, our witnesses show up.
Hayes walks in first, which I thought was an interesting choice.
But I guess because Hayes is the family man and often keeps to himself, maybe Wendell trusts him more to keep this secret.
I mean, Hayes wasn’t even there after practice the other night because he had to help his kid with homework.
The man is too busy as it is, but he made time for this so he must be a good friend.
Just as Wren blusters in, I catch Hayes’s reaction to her. His eyes scan her from toe to head. Very slowly. Until he blinks hard, expressionless, and lowers himself into the seat next to Wendell.
“Sorry, I’m late. Coffee. Donuts. Papers.
Dogs. You know?” Nope. I don’t know, and I’m pretty sure no one else does.
But this is Wren. A kaleidoscope of awesome randomness.
To everyone, she flashes a smile full of sunshine.
And everyone returns it except Hayes. He’s like the dark cloud that her rays can’t permeate.
Undeterred, Wren introduces herself to the room quickly. When it comes to shaking Hayes’ hand, the moment seems to linger, but Hayes’ only response is a grunt.
“Shall we?” The JP invites us to stand and hold hands. Before I know it, we exchange our vows, merely parroting the words from the JP.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”
Shit. Another point we didn’t discuss. I am never this impulsive, and in this moment I’m seriously regretting my lack of preparation. What kind of kiss is he going to lay on me? He wouldn’t do anything inappropriate. Would he? I mean, I guess we did just agree to have sex with each other. I think.
That’s when I feel his fingers squeeze my hands, like he can read me and he’s pulling me out of the spiral. Wendell’s looking at me with a glint in his eyes and a boyish grin on his face. For the only second in months, time stands still as I let myself take him in.
The man I’m marrying finally resembles that hot jogger I met ages ago. The boy who stole my breath in a single glance. The boy who laughed instead of cringed at my awkwardness. The boy who for years would be my constant friend. Reliable. Nice. Steady.
He’s here in this boyish grin.
But I can’t let myself open that door. It was closed years ago, and right now he’s just helping me out. As a friend. How many times have we said that over the years? Drawing, redrawing, painting, modelling in clay, the line that exists firmly between us. Friends.
Wendell’s hand on my waist tips me forward while his other hand goes softly to my cheek where his thumb caresses my jaw before he presses a soft kiss to my lips.
Chaste. Super chaste. Uber chaste. The chaste-est of the chaste-est of all kisses.
See? Friends.
Tell that to the lightning zinging up my left side.