4. Chapter 4
Chapter four
~DECLAN~
The thing about accidentally getting married is that you still have to stand there and smile while your brother gets intentionally married.
It's seven forty-two P.M. The Tulum sun has completed its theatrical exit, leaving behind the kind of purple-gold twilight that makes everything look softer than it is.
The chapel is still warm, still fragrant with gardenias and candle wax, and Quinn is still crying—now for the right reasons—as the officiant who just accidentally married me to Darcy Madison begins the ceremony again.
From the top.
"Dearly beloved," Rodrigo says, for the second time in twelve minutes.
Still in shock, I stand stiffly to Quinn's left, holding rings I already handed over once.
Darcy stands across from me, refusing to make eye contact.
Her jaw is tight, knuckles white around the bouquet. Every few seconds, her gaze flicks to me, and I can see her mentally composing a very detailed list of reasons I should be launched into the ocean.
I know this because I'm doing the same thing, except my list only has one item: figure out how to undo a legally binding Mexican marriage before Monday morning.
Quinn and Jessica exchange vows—the real ones, the ones they practiced, the ones that actually matter.
Jessica's voice is steady. Quinn's voice cracks twice.
Someone in the third row is crying. The photographer is getting shots that will look beautiful in the album and will also, unfortunately, include me in the background looking like a man who just made a colossal error in judgment.
Which I did.
The intended ceremony ends, and Quinn kisses Jessica.
The guests applaud.
Confetti appears from somewhere—I didn't know there would be confetti; nobody told me about confetti—and it rains down in soft white pieces that stick to everything.
Including Darcy's hair.
She doesn't brush it off. She just stands there, eyes shooting daggers at me as the recessional music starts. Quinn and Jessica walk back down the aisle, radiating joy, blissfully unaware that their best man and maid of honor just got married by the same officiant minutes before they did.
I offer Darcy my arm, and the woman has the nerve to look at it like it's a live snake.
“We still have to commit to our roles,” I hum quietly.
"I know that," she hisses.
"So take my arm."
"I'm considering my options."
"Your options are take my arm or explain to eighty people why you're refusing to be a decent maid of honor at your best friend's wedding."
She takes my arm, her grip hard enough to break bone, as we walk down the aisle together, smiling at guests who smile back. The second we're through the chapel doors and out of sight, she drops my arm and rounds on me.
Her hazel eyes flash. “Don't you dare talk down to me, you pompous boot heel. That? Up there? That was no small hiccup. That was us—getting married. Actually married. In Mexico."
"We'll fix it—"
"I saw it in a movie once," she continues, voice rising slightly before she catches it and drops it back to a furious whisper.
"In places like Tulum, if an officiant has a license and you sign the registry and say the words—" She stops and takes a breath.
"During Quinn's ceremony, I asked Bria to look it up.
On her phone. While we were standing there covered in confetti pretending everything was fine. "
My blood thickens into sludge. "And?"
"And it's real, Declan. Legally binding. Mexican law recognizes it. We signed something earlier when the event coordinator—"
“Fuck.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling. “I thought that was the guest book.”
"It wasn't the guest book. It was the marriage registry.
Rodrigo has our full names. Our signatures.
Today's date. An official seal." Her hands shake slightly.
"Bria showed me the Wikipedia page. The government website.
The literal Mexican legal code. We are married. Actually, legally, for-real married."
"We'll fix it."
"Stop saying that like it's simple—"
"It is simple. We’ll get it annulled."
"You don't even know if annulment is the right word in Mexican law—"
"My lawyer will know. And if you’d take a goddamned second and—"
"Oh my god." She presses both hands to her face. "I cannot believe this is happening. I cannot believe I'm standing at my best friend's wedding reception having this conversation."
I lean in, feeling the heat of her body. “Maybe if you'd keep your mouth closed for two minutes, Miss Madison.”
“Me? You were the one that stepped forward!”
"I was buying time."
"You were making it worse."
"I was handling the situation."
"You handled us into a marriage."
My jaw literally pulses, and I can feel my skin heating. In any other situation, I would exit stage left. But Darcy—Stick-Up-Her-Well-Formed-Ass Madison—is right.
The woman is insufferable and stubborn and can’t keep her thoughts to herself.
But standing here arguing isn’t the answer. And no matter whose goddamned fault it is, nothing—not how furious she makes me, or how hard I suddenly feel myself becoming—will change the fact that somewhere in this resort there is a marriage certificate with both our names on it.
“Fine,” I grumble, taking a deep breath. “You’re right, Miss Madison.”
She blinks. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You're right. I made it worse. I should have stopped it sooner."
"Oh." She shifts her weight. "Well. Good. I'm glad you—wait, are you doing that thing where you agree with me to end the argument faster?"
"No."
"Because that's absolutely something you would do."
"I'm agreeing with you because you're right."
She stares at me for a long moment, clearly trying to decide if this is a trap. "Fine. You're right that I'm right. What are we going to do about it?"
“Like I said…lawyer. Monday. Annulment."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's the plan."
"Plans require steps, Declan. What are the actual steps?"
I look at her: the confetti in her hair, her outraged smoky eyes, the particular fury that comes from someone who just got accidentally married and is trying very hard not to have a breakdown in front of eighty wedding guests.
"We go to the reception," I say. "We smile. We drink. We tell anyone who asks this is not serious. Then Monday morning, I call my lawyer. He handles the paperwork. Quietly. Two weeks, this never happened."
"Two weeks?"
"Maybe three."
"Three?"
"Mexican legal system. International documentation. Could be a month."
"A month." She presses both hands to her face. "I'm going to be married to you for a month."
"Technically we're married now."
That shuts her up.
The mouthy new Mrs. Shaw takes three deep breaths, lowers her hands, and straightens her shoulders.
"Okay," she says. "Okay. We go to the reception. We smile. We don't tell Quinn and Jessica until after their honeymoon. We fix this Monday."
"Agreed."
"And until then—" She peers up at me, golden eyes wide. "We don't talk about this. We don't think about this. We pretend it didn't happen."
My heart hammers in my chest as I step closer. “You’ll find no argument from me.”
She swallows, her small throat working as she faces off, chin lifted. “Good.”
We stand there for a second longer in the warm evening air—married, furious, and covered in confetti.
Then without another word to one another, we walk back to the reception.
The terrace is lit with white string lights that make everything look like a fairytale.
The ocean performs its evening dance in the background—waves, salt air, the whole romantic production. Tables are set with candles and flowers. A bar operates at full capacity.
My brother Quinn and Jessica are already on the dance floor, and the playlist has correctly identified that people want to dance and has delivered accordingly.
I get a Scotch. Darcy gets champagne.
The two of us stand at opposite ends of the terrace and pretend we don't know each other.
This lasts approximately forty-seven minutes.
Forty-seven minutes during which I'm approached by bridesmaid Kayla, two of Jessica's cousins, and a woman whose name I didn't catch, who works in sustainable fashion consulting and wants to talk about Shaw Entertainment Group's brand pivot into hospitality.
I make appropriate conversation. I smile when expected.
And I do not look across the terrace at Darcy, who is also being approached.
Because it seems like an unending rotation of groomsmen and plus-ones are asking her to dance.
She declines each one with a polite smile, staying planted next to maid of honor Bria Osei like she's established a defensive perimeter.
After every refusal, her gaze flicks in my direction, as if she wants to check—or rather make certain—that I’m still watching.
And fuck me, I can’t help it.
I am.
"So what do you think?" Kayla appears at my elbow with a fresh drink and one of her falsely whitened smiles.
"About what?"
"About extending the evening. There's a bar down the beach—very low-key, great cocktails, local vibe." She tips her head. "I'm thinking of checking it out. And if you wanted to, you know, join."
I breathe in, inhaling the warm Mexican air, the scent of peonies or poppies or whatever still floating by.
I know, in my bones, I should say yes to Kayla’s offer.
The bridesmaid is attractive, available, and clearly interested.
If only she weren’t completely wrong for what I need tonight.
She's blonde and cheerful and welcoming. But in the last twenty-four hours, I can’t seem to get it up for anything—or any woman—that’s not dark-haired, angry, and slightly homicidal when it comes to me.
Speaking of homicidal…
The woman who fits that description to a T is currently standing sixty feet away and refusing a dance from one of Quinn's fraternity brothers while shooting me a look that could set fire to the ocean.
I turn back to Kayla, hating myself more and more by the minute.
I take a sip of my Scotch, relishing the burn.
"I appreciate the offer, Miss Gilbert," I tell the blonde. "But I have an early flight tomorrow."
"Tomorrow's Sunday—"
"Early flight," I repeat, with the tone that ends conversations.