Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Avery
I open the door to my apartment after hearing fists bash against it.
Ryder and Orlando stand side by side, completely suited up like they're on their way to a mission or a funeral.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, eyes darting between them. "And why are you both dressed—"
"Like we’re going to a wedding?" Ryder says, pushing past me, making himself comfortable in my hotel room. I sigh and run my hands down my face, then shut the door behind them.
"Right. Wedding." I shake my head.
As if I could possibly forget.
"You know, some would say you’re underdressed for the occasion," Orlando says, arms crossed as he surveys me like I’m the one out of place.
I glance down. Black slacks, unbuckled and hanging low on my hips, boxer briefs still on display. Not exactly company-ready, but I hadn’t planned on having any.
"Okay, first of all, my shirt’s hanging in the bedroom, freshly steamed. Second, it’s not like it’s a black-tie affair. We’re getting married by a dude in a wig and white flares who’s gonna tell me to kiss my bride, thank you very much."
I try to throw on an Elvis impression, but it lands somewhere between tragic and embarrassing. Still, I barrel ahead, because if I stop, they might say something about the whole kissing Olive in front of actual people thing.
I mean, yeah, we’ve kissed. A lot. But this? This one feels…official and intimate. Like, more official than a kiss cam on the Jumbotron.
"And third, why are you guys even here? I thought we agreed you were skipping it."
"You came to that decision on your own when you didn’t invite us.
Do you really think we would miss our best buddy getting hitched?
The public sure as shit wouldn’t buy it.
Or they would, but they’d blame Olive for driving a wedge between her new husband and the guys who have been through it all with him," Ryder says, slinging his arm over my shoulders, curling it around my neck.
Orlando raids my mini bar and pours the three of us a glass of expensive scotch. He slides them across the counter and raises his in a silent toast. "And also, I’m your manager. I kind of need to be here for shit like this."
I stare blankly at mine while my mind tries to comprehend exactly what’s happening.
Orlando takes a sip of his scotch as he studies me. "That, and Josie sent me to make sure everything runs smoothly."
Ryder lifts his glass with an arrogant smirk. "Cheers to a fake marriage that hopefully comes with real sex."
Orlando gives me a knowing look. "Here’s hoping you get to consummate your marriage before she finds out what a dick you can be."
The clink of their glasses rings in my ears. I grab mine, throw my drink back before either of them catches the lie I’m not saying aloud.
Normally, I tell them everything when they ask. But telling them I slept with Olive?
It just feels…wrong.
Like it’s actually private and important.
It’s something between her and I that nobody needs to know about, that nobody can take away from us.
"Now, go get ready," Orlando says. "You have some vows to pretend to confess."
***
The chapel is blindingly pink. Red and blue rose petals are scattered down a velvet aisle runner that looks like it came from a prom in 1987. I’m not sure if I’ve walked into my wedding or a fever dream.
Is she going to show up, or have I ruined it all before it even started?
Do I have anything in my teeth?
Are my laces tied up? The shoe on my right foot feels a little looser than the one on my left.
Should I have worn a skinny tie instead of a bow tie? Should I even be wearing a tie?
All things I want to ask the two guys standing beside me, but can’t find the courage to verbally spew, and I don’t know why.
Because they will believe you might actually have feelings for this girl.
Shaking the thought away, I trust that the image I saw in the mirror before I left the hotel remains the same, and that everything is the best it’s going to get.
I just have to hope she likes it.
"You sure she’s going to show up?" Orlando teases, and I swallow the lump in my throat as he asks the question I wasn’t brave enough to.
"If she doesn’t, you can always marry that chick there." Ryder nods toward the end of the aisle. "She looks enough like her. The public won’t know the difference. Hell, if you don’t, I might. She’s fucking pretty."
It’s Lizzie. Of course it is. She beams as she walks down the aisle, her heels squashing the petals like she’s in a runway show instead of this pink nightmare.
I’d been so focused on the hideous decor that I didn’t hear the door open or see Jenna walk out first, holding a life-size cardboard cutout of Cassandra.
Whoever designed this place needs their license revoked. It’s even worse than the photos online.
"That’s her sister, you dick." I backhand his chest. Fixing my posture, I link my fingers together in front of my waist, my feet shoulder-width apart.
"Is she single?" Ryder asks as Lizzie gets closer. By the look on her face, she definitely heard him.
"She is," Lizzie replies with a wink, standing in front of Jenna.
I glance over my shoulder and offer a quick smile to the three people closest to Olive.
Lizzie and Jenna each wear a different shade of green. Their dresses aren’t over the top, but they’re way too nice for a place like this.
And still, it’s the cardboard cutout of Cassandra that stands out most.
I shudder, feeling her eyes burn into me from across the room.
If the girls look like that…I don’t let myself wonder what Olive might be wearing.
Me, Ryder and Orlando, though? We stick out like a steaming pile of shit in a brown paper bag on somebody’s porch. We’re way too overdressed to be seen in a place like this, and I know for a fact people are waiting outside to take our photos the second we leave.
The music changes to an acoustic version of 'I can't help falling in love' by Elvis, and my stomach falls at my feet. My mouth feels like sandpaper, making it impossible for me to swallow.
I pull my eyes up from the horrible carpet, and there she is.
There she is.
Her hair is down, soft waves dancing just above her shoulders, falling in front of her face.
Her makeup is neutral and bronzed, bringing out her natural tanned complexion.
Her dress is off-white with spaghetti straps.
It’s not tight to the point of hugging her like a second skin, but it floats around the edges of her curves exactly how you’d expect it to.
The material is silk, and I so badly want to touch it.
Touch her. But I force my hands to remain where they are.
One thing that doesn’t surprise me, though, is her choice of footwear.
Or should I say, lack of? She’s…barefoot.
I suppress a shudder, knowing how outdated this place is. It probably hasn’t had a deep clean in years.
But then my eyes find hers.
She’s got a mischievous smirk on her face, and it sets free the smile that’s been tugging at my lips all afternoon.
For the first time in a long time, it’s genuine.
All because of Olive Herring.
"You sure you want to do this?" she asks as the distance between us closes, and I hold my hand out for her.
Why does this feel so natural? Like it’s just her and I alone in this room, wanting to commit to forever?
"Only if it’s what you want to do."
She takes my hand lightly, using my arm for balance as she steps up onto the platform where the five of us are standing.
Six, if you count Cassandra, who’s still shooting 2D daggers at me from across the aisle.
She’s smiling, but I swear she hates me.
"I do." She smirks.
"We’re not quite there yet, sweetheart. But if I were marrying this man, I’d be eager, too." The Elvis wannabe does his best impression of that low, iconic voice. It could be worse, but God, am I looking forward to this being over.
Elvis runs through all the usual ceremony jargon, and Olive actually looks like she’s listening to every word.
Then we’re repeating the long-awaited, painfully generic vows after him, one line at a time.
It’s awkward as hell, and I’m way too uncomfortable saying any of this in front of actual people.
But Olive? She looks like she might throw up the second she’s forced to promise a man she barely knows that she’ll stick by his side through it all.
In sickness and in health.
For richer or poorer.
Till death do us part.
When in reality, our vows should say: until my image is clean, and she’s pleased her record label enough, or she's broken my heart.
Elvis asks for the rings, and Lizzie hands them over happily, like her little sister isn’t marrying a stranger.
Then he asks the age-old question. "Do you, Olive Herring, take this man—Avery Jones—to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
I resist the urge to say, "Define ‘lawfully.’"
Instead, I look at her.
"I do," she repeats the two words she’d said earlier.
Elvis looks at me, eyes all serious, like it’s do or die. "And do you, Avery Jones, take this woman—Olive Herring—to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do," I croak out. The weight of what we’ve just committed to hits me like a truck.
Marriage.
To a woman I barely even know.
And yet…
"Mr. Jones, you may now kiss your bride."
Fucking finally.
I step closer, cupping her cheeks in my hands, my thumbs brushing along her jaw.
She leans into me, closing the last inch between us.
"Can I?" I whisper, dipping my forehead to hers and forgetting, for a second, that we’re not alone.
"Only because you asked nicely."
She’s on her tiptoes a moment later, her soft lips grazing mine, parting when my tongue swipes across.
It’s delicate, quick, and over too soon, leaving me wanting more, even as I remind myself to respect the line we’re walking.
"Think we can sneak back to the hotel without getting caught by paparazzi?" she asks, her doe eyes shimmering with desire and devilry.
It’s music to my ears.
"I can have us back there in five minutes." I pull away from her, our locked hands rising in the air while our witnesses cheer as we make our way down the aisle.
"Make it three, and you’ve got yourself a deal," she says.
I never back down from a challenge.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I pull it out and see my manager’s name flash across the screen.
I already know he’s about to make this easier for us.
Orlando Davis
Sneak out the back. Wellington is waiting with the car. I’ve got you covered.
P.S, I knew you wanted her. There was nothing fake about that kiss.
I flash a smile in his direction and guide my new bride toward our escape.