Chapter 4 #2
Everyone in our proximity continues to urge us to “Kiss, kiss, kiss,” as if we’re on the kiss cam at a sports game. But we already kissed and … it was wonderful. That much I am sure of.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and then his lips are touching mine.
Again.
Because I certainly remember how the first kiss felt, even though I wasn’t fully aware of getting married at the time—at least consciously.
The world narrows to this, us, now.
Soft.
Warm.
Perfect.
My eyes flutter closed as everything else fades away. Much like Lucian Little instructed during the hypnosis, all I have are my basic senses.
There’s the distant hum of the theater, the faint music from the sound system, with my heartbeat falling into its rhythm, or is it syncing up with Lane’s pulse?
My focus is entirely on this moment and with that comes both relief and excitement.
Relief because that tells me what I want is true. Him.
Excitement for much the same reasons.
His rough, callused palm trails down my neck and his fingers tap my collarbones before sliding to my waist. My hands explore the caps of his broad shoulders before lowering to the plains of his back, muscular and strong.
Lane’s lips are gentle against mine, patient and not demanding, but not at all lazy or disconnected. The gentle intensity suggests he wants this as much as I do.
I lean into him and he draws me close, into him, where I feel safe, secure as the kiss deepens.
This is the only thing that makes sense tonight.
My hands come around to rest against his chest. I can feel the steady thump thump of his heart through his shirt. There’s something achingly tender about the way he kisses me—like he wants to memorize every second.
Me too.
He angles his head just slightly, intensifying the kiss.
A small sound in the back of my throat that’s part sigh and part delight would embarrass me if my head weren’t in outer space.
But all I can think about is how perfectly we fit together.
How his touch makes my knees weak. How I want to do this every day for the rest of my life.
But that would mean forever, wouldn’t it?
Lane’s hand twines in my hair. It’s my turn to shift to the side, increasing the wonderful pressure of our mouths together, and I give back.
The taste of him is warm and faintly sweet, like hot chocolate and marshmallows. His scent is winter pine.
I can’t help but press closer, my fingers curling into the soft tips of hair at the base of his neck, as this man fills my senses.
Time feels suspended, stretched thin like sugar being spun into delicate and cloudlike whorls.
I’ve gone well past this atmosphere and am circling the planet like the astronaut I once wanted to be. But there’s no looking back, no going back.
If this is what kissing Lane is like, I’m all in, as wild as that sounds.
There’s no urgency, no desperate grabbing or clashing teeth—just a slow, sweet exploration that feels like a conversation neither of us wants to end. His thumb traces along my jawline. I shiver at the gentleness of it, at how cherished I feel.
His mouth on mine makes me believe this was meant to be.
When we finally part, it’s gradual, reluctant, like we’re both afraid that breaking the connection might somehow break whatever spell we’ve found ourselves under and return us to earth.
He rests his forehead against mine for a moment, both of us breathing a little unsteadily. Wonder twinkles in his eyes and I’m sure it’s reflected in my own.
His lips are warm and soft when he pulls me back after just a few seconds for a few quick kisses, but then we part again. I immediately miss the contact.
The crowd goes wild, but I barely hear them. All I can think about is how right that felt, which is completely wrong because I don’t even know this man.
This handsome man, who apparently likes freshly baked bread and dreams of coaching hockey and somehow ended up married to me. Here. Tonight. And we kissed.
“That was ...” I start.
“Yeah,” he agrees, slightly breathless, his palm still softly gripping my jaw.
But then reality crashes back in.
The crowd.
The cameras.
The fact that we’re essentially performing our first married moments in front of strangers.
This is all wrong.
Panic overwhelms me and like a cornered animal, my voice is a mess when I say, “We need to find Lucian. Figure out if this is even legal, and how to undo it, and—”
“Agreed,” Lane says, his hand dropping from my face.
Lucian has disappeared, probably to let us “enjoy our special moment” or leave the state, possibly the country.
I, for one, would not want to get on the wrong side of a man with Lane’s stature and obvious strength.
Thankfully, he agrees with me that this marriage is a total sham and we need answers.
But the kiss.
Lane gently tugs on my hand. It’s probably to ensure I don’t run, making it so he has to track me down later to resolve this. “Come on. Let’s go find our New Year’s Eve wizard.”
We make our way off the stage and through the crowd, accepting congratulations and deflecting questions with vague—and slightly dazed—smiles. My phone keeps buzzing in my tiny purse, but I ignore it. Whatever is happening on social media can wait.
We search the ballroom, then the lobby, and the hotel bar. No Lucian. It’s like he vanished into thin air, which seems fitting given the circumstances.
“Maybe he went backstage?” I suggest.
Lane nods toward a door marked Authorized Personnel Only.
While I wonder how we might get access, the man just barges through like he owns the place. Knowing what I do about hockey players, they like to party, so perhaps he has a swanky hotel side hustle.
The backstage area is a maze of hallways and storage rooms, mostly empty now that the show is over. In what very much feels like mutually agreed-upon silence, our footsteps echo in the quiet corridors.
“This is outrageous,” I mutter, checking my phone for the time.
It’s well past midnight now, officially New Year’s Day, and I should be on my way back to my hotel room to sleep off this surreal evening. Also, I have more notifications than normal, but it is a holiday and, despite my reluctance to admit it, I did just get married.
Publically.
To a stranger.
My brain rebels against the notion, but my body—the backstabbing traitor—likes the feel of Lane’s hand around mine. The touch of his lips. The rush of the kiss.
Naturally, this only makes me more determined than ever to hunt down the hypnotist who may have committed some kind of fraud.
We take a few more turns and we’re in the depths of the building with metal pipes overhead and flickering fluorescent lighting. I should be gravely concerned because this seems like the kind of place where I could be murdered.
But Lane charges ahead as if prepared to fend off any bad guys lurking in the hallways.
I remind myself it’s late. I’ve been up since yesterday. I should be home. Never mind hypnosis. There’s a good chance I’m hallucinating.
All of this is merely a projection of my imagination.
Then my phone buzzes again, jarring me with the reality that I’m awake.
I have eight missed calls from Bree, forty-three text messages in the group chat, and so many notifications from my social media accounts—even the bakery ones—that my stomach knots with the particular feel of pressure I experience when I’ve fallen behind on things.
Then another possibility crashes the party. Someone must have posted the wedding video. All I do is tap one message and my fears are confirmed.
“Lane,” I say weakly, showing him my phone. “I think we might have a problem.”
He looks at the screen and groans. “My agent is going to kill me. I’m supposed to be keeping a low profile.”
“Your agent?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “This can’t turn into another PR nightmare.”
We stare at each other for a moment as if through heavy fog. It’s different from when we were on stage. That was sweet, warm. This is dark, disorienting.
Squaring his shoulders, Lane says, “We’ll find Lucian. Get this sorted out.”
“And if we can’t?”
His jaw tightens. “Then we’ll figure out another way. Annulment, divorce, whatever it takes.”
The words should be reassuring, but they still sting. Of course, he wants to get rid of me as quickly as possible. We’re strangers. This was an accident.
A very public—and suddenly very complicated—accident.
I spot a man in a dark coat heading toward an exit at the far end of the corridor. “Is that him?”
We hurry after the figure, pushing through the exit door into the cool night air of a service alley behind the hotel. Sure enough, Lucian is climbing into the back of a sleek black town car.
“Wait!” I call out, rushing toward him with Lane right beside me. “Lucian, we need to talk to you!”
The hypnotist pauses with one foot in the vehicle and a hand gripping the top of the door. He turns to look at us with an expression of mild surprise, like he wasn’t expecting to see us again—the people he married. As if!
“The happy couple!” he says with a smile. “How was your first New Year’s celebration as husband and wife?”
“Cut the act.” Lane’s tone is slate, two tectonic plates grinding together. “What did you do to us?”
“I helped you find true love,” Lucian says simply.
“We’re not in love!” I protest.
“We don’t even know each other!” Lane says.
“You can’t just marry people without their consent!”
Lucian tilts his head, studying us with the kind of soft focus he had on stage. “When you entered the venue tonight and went through security, did you tap to agree to the terms, conditions, and conduct expectations issued by the hospitality team?”
“Yes,” Lane says slowly.
“But—” I start, vividly recalling doing so.
“Did you read the fine print?”