Chapter 7 Kiss Me Like You’re My Bride
KISS ME LIKE YOU’RE MY brIDE
He’s not gay? He’s not gay.
This is what races through my mind as my mom ushers me outside to stand next to my dad, who waits at the back of the rows of chairs.
This is what plays through my hazy brain as I walk down the aisle, am handed off to Lachlan, and recite the vows fed to me.
The ceremony is short. I’m unaware of everyone around me.
I didn’t even hear the string quartet when I walked toward him.
His face, blurry from my inability to blink, was my only focus—his face and the way he kissed me.
Like a man with skill. Like a man who knows how to please a woman. A woman. Not a man.
He wants to claim me, he said. He’s wanted to since he first saw me. That was three years ago. I was barely eighteen. I don’t remember much about that day, but I remember seeing him.
My parents hosted a dinner at the country club in one of the ballrooms, celebrating Lachlan as a new investor.
I’d spotted him and lost all my senses before knowing who he was.
All I saw was a gorgeous man who seemed too young to be talking to my father and his other investors.
Everyone else was older, around my dad’s age or in their late thirties.
Not him, though. He looked like a European model, and I wanted to meet him.
“Gawk a little more, why don’t you?” Pippa, who hadn’t been engaged to Hunt yet and didn’t even know him, appeared at my side.
“I’m not gawking, I’m enjoying the view.”
“You look pathetic. Wipe your chin.”
“Shut up,” I snapped but discreetly wiped my chin in case I had been drooling.
“He is a fantasy though.” Pippa swirled the champagne in her glass, her gaze sharp and calculating. Dad wouldn’t let me drink, but she could and she was only nineteen at the time.
“Why is he here?”
“Duh. That’s Dad’s new investor. This party is for him.”
“That’s Lachlan?” I’d only heard Dad say his first name. I imagined another older man.
“Maybe Dad will choose him to be my suitor. I wouldn’t complain.” She sipped her champagne, eyeing him like he was her next conquest.
Dad never set them up. He chose Hunt instead, but she wanted Lachlan. She talked about him a lot until she was silenced by Mom and told to be the fiancé Hunt deserves—and she did. She became that girl who constantly bragged about how amazing her man was like she was trying to sell him.
“Hunt’s the smartest, the most handsome, the most caring, the best in bed.” I got so tired of hearing it. She even bragged about how she had an orgasm on their wedding night, the first time she had sex, which was supposed to be impossible. Like Hunt was a legend.
She liked to rub things in my face back then, but she stopped for the month that I lived with her. She was nice even.
Now, I’m married to the man she wanted all those years ago. Maybe that’s why her bitch switch is back on.
“You may kiss your bride,” the officiant says, drawing my attention from the memory and earning my sharp gaze.
“His bride. His? The bride is perfectly acceptable.”
The world around me surfaces in a rush: the string quartet softly playing in the background, the clapping of the audience, even though we haven’t kissed yet.
I focus on Lachlan, seeing him for the first time since he left me sitting on the bed in the room.
He doesn’t look that different from when I first spotted him across the ballroom those few years ago.
A couple of crinkles around his eyes, light scruff, and a shrewdness that wasn’t in his gaze before.
Maybe it was, and I never got close enough to see it.
He must have looked at me all those years ago, only I never knew.
He planned this—if he was telling the truth.
He chose me, and I didn’t have a clue. Did my father?
Unlikely. He would have married me off at eighteen if he knew.
Why me? Why not Pippa? Why let me believe he’s gay? Why orchestrate all of this? Why wait until today to be honest? Is this what he was going to confess three weeks ago before he got called to Scotland?
“Yes. Mine,” Lachlan states, drawing my attention. “My bride. My wife. Mine.”
He closes the distance between us. His aqua eyes bore into mine with a triumphant gleam that fills my stomach with burning anger. He slides his hand around my waist and hoists me against him, possessively.
“Remember to breathe.” He bends slowly, holding my gaze. His other hand cups my cheek, a display of romance for the crowd guaranteed to make all the women here swoon. I won’t lie; it feels good to be held this way and to be singled out by this man.
I keep my arms hanging at my sides and narrow my gaze in challenge. He thinks he owns me. His lips brush mine in a seductive temptation that sends a spark to my core. He knows exactly what he’s doing; such a sly pretender to make me think he was gay.
The moment his lips press against mine, signaling he’s going to kiss me stupid, I jerk my head back and slap him across the cheek.
The crowd gasps.
“Emery!” Mom’s voice rings out.
The shock of my smack is on me more than Lachlan or the crowd. My husband doesn’t jerk away or react as if I hurt him, let alone took him by surprise. Instead, he remains composed, his gaze glowing with anger and excitement.
In my ear, he whispers, “Do that again, and I’ll tear this dress off and fuck you right here in front of everyone. Your beautiful breasts on display for all to see but only mine to feast upon.”
I gasp, disgusted and astonishingly turned on in a way that doesn’t make me proud of myself.
“Kiss me like you’re my bride,” Lachlan orders for only me to hear.
He takes my chin in a firm hold and devours my lips.
I feel the kiss all the way down to my toes.
He pushes his tongue into my mouth, twirling it with sensual strokes.
In terms of kissing, this man ranks a fifty on a scale of one to ten.
My body goes limp like before as tingles race to my core, soaking my lace thong.
His big hand, tight on my waist, burns through my dress.
A loud moan escapes my throat, drawing me from my senses to awareness.
At the same time, a man whistles then shouts, “Take her to bed already.”
I gather my bearings, though it's not easy considering how I react to Lachlan’s kisses, and jerk away, only to stumble backward, trip on the hem of my dress, and fall flat on my butt.
More gasps sound.
Pippa laughs instead of helping me stand.
Lachlan rubs his jaw, his lips pinched with a hint of amusement as he shakes his head.
“Get up!” Mom darts toward me from where she sits in the front row. “Pippa!” she scolds, and my sister sobers. “Lachlan, be a dear and help your wife to her feet.” Mom scowls at him, her back to the guests.
I can only imagine how all this looks to them. The fact that my mom came to my rescue makes this even more pathetic. And my husband is a bigger asshole than I could have imagined.
Lachlan holds his hand out to me. I swat it away. “Screw you.”
“Not until later.” He winks.
“In your dreams.”
“Emery, enough.” Mom tries her best to help me up, but the skirt of the dress and crinoline are too damn big. I’m trapped in a sea of silk and lace with no escape.
“Lachlan.” Mom glares at him discreetly.
He holds up his hands in a show of innocence. “I tried.”
“Emery!” she barks at me like this is my fault.
In a way it is, but I won’t take responsibility for this cupcake of a dress and how it caused me to fall. She chose it.
“Allow me to help,” a man says with a Scottish accent. From behind, he hooks his hands under my arms and hoists me to my feet.
“What a blessing.” Mom flutters her lashes at the mystery Scotsman.
I brush my veil from my face, straighten my skirt, and turn to look at him. “Thank you.”
My eyes connect with a tall man about my age who resembles Lachlan. Same nose and eyes, only the color is peridot. His hair is lighter by a few shades. A playfulness shines from his gemstone gaze, but it’s not arrogant like someone else I know.
He’s dressed in a tuxedo that matches the wedding party.
Keeping with the American tradition of a day wedding, the men wear vests and ascot ties instead of an evening tux.
Lachlan’s is all black like his heart, but the two men in his party wear periwinkle ties.
I was so distracted during the ceremony I never noticed who stood beside Lachlan.
I didn’t look at anyone, lost in my thoughts.
He leans to my ear. “I’m Rory, Lachlan’s brother. We haven’t been introduced and from what I know, we’re to pretend this is a real arrangement, which means you would know me already, hence the whispering.”
Lachlan has a younger brother?
He straightens and smiles kindly, giving me a slight nod.
Understanding, I play along. “Rory, I’d love to catch up later.”
“Likewise.” He excuses himself and joins his brother.
Rory is about the same height as Lachlan, only his shoulders aren’t as broad. Another man stands with them, too. He has the same demeanor as Lachlan but seems tenser and more paranoid, constantly glancing at the guests seated on Lachlan’s side.
His appearance, along with his grown-out dark blonde hair with its perfect side-part and blue eyes, scream European old money.
His gaze catches on mine as I study him, and his eyes tighten in an unfriendly way. Whoever he is, he doesn’t like me.
The wedding planner talks to Mom, and I hear the band playing from the large reception tent as guests walk in that direction.
All I want to do is leave. I can’t imagine spending the rest of the day pretending to like Lachlan. I’d rather stab him in the eye with a fork.
“I need a minute,” I say to Pippa, not wanting to interrupt Mom and the wedding planner or risk having Mom summon me to her side.
Lachlan gives me a side-eyed glance while he continues talking to his brother and that other guy as if nothing unusual happened.
If I trusted myself not to trip over my dress, I’d run inside the house.
Behind me, I hear Mom say, “She’s your problem now, Lachlan.”
In a flurry, I enter the room where I got ready and stop near the fireplace. Tears of frustration burn my eyes, and my throat feels too tight to breathe.
On the brighter side, if I pass out, I’ll be taken to the hospital to recover. A hysterical laugh bubbles from my throat and more tears sting my eyes. Mom most certainly has her private doctor here, at the ready, so nothing stops her special event.
I consider my alternatives. Fake the stomach flu?
A headache? If I’m Lachlan’s problem as my mother dismissively stated, then she can’t force me to attend my own reception.
Can she? She’s all about saving face in front of these people.
I’m surprised she hasn’t come after me by now and forced me to play the role of a happy bride.
Argh. I swat decorative books from the fireplace mantle and then scoop them up quickly, feeling bad for taking my anger out on precious antique volumes of romantic classics.
Carefully, I arrange them back on the mantle and catch a glimpse of a dark-haired figure walking outside the door.
My body stiffens, thinking it’s Lachlan.
It’s not. It’s someone so much better. Without another thought, I race out the French doors, my skirt lifted high in front as I chase the man around a row of tall hedges.
Out of sight from anyone who might be lingering where the ceremony was held, I call out, “Raphael!”
Jerking to a stop, he swings around and takes me in. His brows tighten. “Emery, what’s wrong?”
I glance at the motorcycle parked not far from where we stand. Cars from the wedding guests and event staff crowd the long driveway. The valet my parents hired are at a makeshift stand at the other end, focused on their phones.
I nod at the motorcycle. “Is that yours?”
“The bike? Yeah.”
“Can I get a ride?” I shuffle toward him, praying no one sees me and forces me back to the wedding.
His lips bunch with contemplation. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”
I step closer. “You won’t. I promise. Leo’s not even at the guard house.” He was at the ceremony.
“My dad… he can’t lose this job.”
“No one will know.” Not unless they watch the camera feed—and they will, but hopefully not until we’re far enough away.
“I won’t let your dad get fired, and I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars.
One hundred thousand if your dad loses his job, which I won’t let happen.
Please.” My heart pounds to a desperate beat. “Please.”
He frowns at the new tears in my eyes. “Your dress is too big.”
I reach under the wads of tulle, pull down the crinoline, and step out of it faster than seems possible considering I had three people help me into this thing. Small blessings.
The material, while still full, is much more manageable. I gather it in a messy ball at my abdomen, my knees exposed. “How about now?”
Come on. I don’t imagine I have much time left before someone figures out where I am.
He makes a pained face and shakes his head. I prepare myself for his refusal.
“You better keep that dress in a ball or we’re going down.”
He’s taking me? “Thank you!” I race over in the strappy sandals Mom picked, thankful the Louis Vuitton’s have chunky heels.
He passes me the helmet. I tear off the veil and toss it onto the pavement. Once the helmet is on, and Raphael is seated, he helps me climb behind him.
I bunch the massive ball of fabric between us, then wrap my arms around his waist as best I can.
“I’m going to pay for this,” he murmurs and starts the engine.
We take off, racing faster than seems normal, but then I’ve never been on a motorcycle before. I steal a quick glance behind me. No one is in the driveway. No one came looking for me. Even the valets are still preoccupied with their phones. My family must think I’m hiding in the house.
I’ve never done anything like this before. I also don’t want Raphael to get into trouble or his father, and I will keep my word and pay them from my trust fund.
I know this is only a temporary escape from my new role as Lachlan’s wife.
If only he’d been gay and harmless—a little weird and aloof.
Nothing I couldn’t handle. Instead, he is a sexy seducer and pretender.
My body wants him, even though I hate him with every fiber of my being—mostly because he makes me desire him. Liar! I’m married to a scheming liar!
Wind lashes my bare arms and legs. My skirt flutters at my sides as I cling to Raphael’s waist. I don’t even know where we’re going, but any place is better than where I was.
I’ll figure out the rest when we reach our destination.
For now, no matter how small a triumph, I take pride in the fact that I left my arrogant husband on our wedding day.
I doubt he thought I had it in me, probably picked me because he thought I was the weaker sister.
Little does he know how far I’ll go to defy something or someone I loathe. He will now.