Chapter 7
COLLETTA
Iwake up to sunlight stabbing through the gauzy curtains like it has a personal vendetta against my eyeballs.
Everything hurts.
My head throbs with the dull, persistent ache of too much champagne and not enough water. My throat feels raw, scratchy in a way that makes me remember exactly why, which sends a fresh wave of mortification crashing through my skull. My thighs are sore. My lips are tender and swollen.
Oh god.
I sit up too fast and the room tilts sideways. The heart-shaped bed mocks me with its pink satin nightmare aesthetic. Beside me, the sheets are cool and empty, perfectly smooth except where I've turned myself into a burrito of shame.
Where is he?
I strain to listen past the pounding in my temples. Water running in the bathroom. The low rumble of what might be humming, except Kruk doesn't seem like the humming type. Maybe he's performing some Orcish morning ritual that involves chanting about tactical superiority.
Last night comes back in flashes that make me want to burrow under the duvet and never emerge.
The kiss in front of everyone. Derek's face turned purple.
Stumbling back to the room while Kruk's hand burned through the thin fabric of my dress.
The door slamming shut behind us and then his mouth, his hands, his body pinning me against the wood like I weighed nothing, like I was something precious and breakable that he still couldn't stop himself from claiming.
His mouth between my legs.
The way I came apart on his tongue, fingers twisted in his hair, thighs shaking so hard I couldn't have stood if my life depended on it.
I press my face into the pillow and make a noise somewhere between a whimper and a scream.
This is a disaster. This is a professional relationship. I hired him to pretend to be my boyfriend, not to give me the most intense orgasm of my entire life while I was pressed against a door like we were in some dark paranormal romance novel.
Except it wasn't pretend. Not the kiss, not what happened after. The way he touched me felt real, raw, like he was staking a claim he had every intention of keeping.
The bathroom door opens.
I freeze, still half-buried under the pink comforter, one eye peeking out like a woodland creature assessing predator threat levels.
Kruk emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. Water beads on his shoulders, runs down the planes of his chest, follows the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the white terry cloth.
His skin is bronze and scarred, muscles shifting under the surface with every movement.
The tribal tattoos that crawl up his neck look darker when wet, like fresh ink.
He sees me watching and stops.
We stare at each other.
I should say something. Apologize? Thank him? Suggest we never speak of it again and maintain a strictly professional fake-relationship dynamic for the remaining forty-eight hours of wedding hell?
Instead I pull the covers over my head completely and pray for a sinkhole to open beneath the Lover's Loft.
I hear him move across the room. Feel the change in air pressure as he approaches the bed. The mattress doesn't dip under his weight, which means he's standing there, looming, probably deciding whether to address the elephant in the room or pretend I don't exist.
"Colletta."
His voice is calm, neutral, like he didn't have his face buried between my thighs eight hours ago.
I don't move.
"I can see you breathing," he says, and there's a hint of something in his tone that might be amusing. "The blanket moves."
Damn it.
I lower the duvet just enough to peer at him with one eye again. "I'm not here. This is a pillow that learned to breathe. It's a medical miracle."
He's dressed now. Black pants, black shirt that clings to his frame like it's afraid to leave any detail to the imagination. His hair is still damp, the single braid down his back dripping onto the floor. He's holding two small cups.
"Coffee," he says, extending one toward me. "And aspirin."
I emerge from my cocoon slowly, like a butterfly except significantly less graceful and infinitely more hungover. The coffee cup is hilariously tiny in his massive hand. I take it carefully, our fingers brushing, and try not to think about where those fingers were last night.
"Thank you," I whisper, my voice still hoarse.
He hands me two white pills and I swallow them dry before taking a sip of coffee. It's black, strong enough to wake the dead, exactly what I need.
We sit in silence.
He settles onto the bed, not touching me, giving me space. His posture is relaxed but alert, like he's ready to spring into action if the bedside lamp attacks.
"About last night," I start, staring into the coffee cup like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"You were drunk," he says simply. "I should not have—"
"I wasn't that drunk." The words come out sharper than I intend. I look up, meet his eyes. They're dark green, flecked with gold, unreadable. "I mean, I was drunk. But not so drunk I didn't know what I was doing."
His jaw tightens. "The contract—"
"Fuck the contract." I'm surprised by my own vehemence. "I mean, not literally. Or maybe literally? I don't know. I just..." I trail off, loss for words that don't make me sound like a complete disaster.
Which I am. But still.
He watches me, waiting, patient as stone.
"I don't regret it," I finally say, quiet but firm. "If that's what you're worried about."
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite relief, but close. The tension in his shoulders eases fractionally.
"Good," he rumbles. "Neither do I."
The air between us feels charged, heavy with everything we're not saying. I take another sip of coffee and try to remember how to be a functional human being.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I lunge for it, grateful for the distraction, and immediately regret the sudden movement as my head protests violently.
Monica: Rehearsal lunch at noon! Couples activities! Don't be late!
I stare at the message with growing fear.
"What is wrong?" Kruk asks, leaning closer to read over my shoulder. His proximity makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Couples activities," I say weakly. "At the rehearsal lunch."
"What activities?"
I pulled up the wedding itinerary Monica sent three months ago, and scrolled to today's schedule. "Three-legged race. Egg toss. Sack race. Trivia about how well we know each other." I look at him helplessly. "This is a nightmare."
"We will adapt," he says, like we're planning a military operation and not about to humiliate ourselves in front of my entire extended family.
"Kruk, I'm the least coordinated person on the planet. I trip over flat surfaces. I once broke my arm falling up the stairs."
"You will not fall," he says with absolute certainty. "I will catch you."
The simple conviction in his voice does something dangerous to my chest. I take a long drink of coffee to hide the fact that my eyes are suddenly stinging.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
The Rehearsal Lunch is held on the vineyard's south lawn, which has been transformed into some pastel Pinterest fever dream.
There are mason jars hanging from trees with fairy lights inside.
The tables are covered in burlap and lace.
A banner strung between two posts reads "LOVE IS IN THE AIR" in letters made of artificial flowers.
I want to set it on fire.
"This is the maneuver zone," Kruk murmurs in my ear as we approach, his hand warm and steady on the small of my back. "Multiple hostiles. Poor sight lines. Unclear objective."
"The objective is not dying of embarrassment," I mutter back.
Monica spots us and waves frantically, bouncing on her toes in her floral sundress. Her fiancé, Trevor, stands beside her looking mildly concussed by her enthusiasm, which is his permanent state.
"You made it!" Monica squeals, rushing over to hug me. She pulls back, eyes widening as she takes in Kruk. "And you brought your... doctor boyfriend."
"Neurosurgeon," I correct automatically, then want to kick myself. The lie is getting more elaborate by the hour.
Derek is already here, leaning against a tree with his new girlfriend. Derek's eyes track to Kruk and he straightens, puffing out his chest like a pigeon trying to look threatening.
Kruk doesn't even glance in his direction. He's too busy scanning the lawn, cataloging exits and potential threats. I'm ninety percent sure he just identified Aunt Carol's purse as a possible weapon.
"Alright everyone!" Monica claps her hands together. "Let's get started with our first activity: the three-legged race!"
A collective groan rises from the assembled couples. Someone hands out strips of fabric to tie legs together. Kruk examines ours like it might be a trap.
"We will win," he announces.
"We absolutely will not," I counter. "Have you met me? I can barely walk on two legs."
"Then I will walk for both of us."
He's not joking.
We line up at the start. Derek and Madison are next to us, already perfectly synchronized. They've probably been practicing. Derek absolutely seems like the type to practice for a casual wedding lawn game.
Kruk crouches down to tie our legs together. His hands are gentle, efficient, and the brush of his fingers against my ankle sends completely inappropriate shivers up my spine.
"Stay close," he instructs, rising to his full height. "Match my rhythm. I will support your weight."
"That's not really how this works," I start to explain, my voice already taking on that nervous, apologetic quality that means I'm about to disappoint someone who's taking this way too seriously.
Monica interrupts by blowing her whistle, a shrill, warbling noise that sounds less like a sporting event and more like a bird in its final death throes. Several people wince. Aunt Carol's dog starts barking from someone's car.
We lurch forward in a tangle of limbs and confusion.