Blake needs a date to his enemy's destination wedding. And not just anyone-a professional. The billionaire genius behind 215 Tech doesn't have time to nurture a real relationship. He hires Lucy to be his fake girlfriend, but things become real when...
"With the power vested in me by the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may..."
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Before the judge can complete his proclamation, my legs gobble the foot of space separating me from Brigid. I said I wouldn't survive losing her again, and I don't intend to test that theory. My soul, gray is it is, belongs to Brigid. It took little effort to persuade her to claim my last name as well. She was screeching like a banshee when I woke her this morning, telling her we would be wed in a handful of hours. But something about the words, 'If you don't go with Olivia to pick a dress, we'll be tying the knot in our pajamas' lit a fire under her ass.
Despite the last-minute planning, Brigid managed to find the perfect gown. It's old-fashioned, with long sleeves and a high neck, the material scooping low at the base of her spine. A lace bodice and abalone buttons accent the vintage fabric, and a simple bow swipes her wild hair from her face.
I tilt her chin, smiling down at her. Her bloodred lips are parted in anticipation. Freckles dot her nose and the highs of her cheeks. Her long lashes cast elegant shadows beneath her emerald eyes. I'll be staring at this face—memorizing it, kissing it, watching it grown more beautiful with time—for the rest of our lives. I'm unsure what happens after death, but even then, I plan on finding her in the next dimension.
Her lids close as my mouth meets hers. It's a demure union, a small taste of our future, but it's enough to light my soul aflame, to warm me from the inside out. Her bottom lip is pressed between both of mine. I give it a suck, tasting the strawberry gloss she must've applied for the sole purpose of driving me insane.
Well, two can play that game. I place my palm on the bare skin above her ass, and dip my little siren low to the ground. She squeaks in surprise, and I laugh against her throat, skimming my nose along her ticklish spot.
Our family and friends rise from their seats, erupting in applause and catcalls. We've gathered in the garden behind our home in Chestnut Hill, which is still decorated for Halloween. The state employee I hired to officiate the wedding isn't on an altar—she's standing at the foot of the rubber guillotine. I bribed my nieces and nephew into cleaning our home, but there's the occasional missed drop of fake blood, and spiderwebs are strewn across the thornbushes. I didn't have time to order chairs, so our guests are employing wrought-iron benches and old tree stumps I've yet to haul to the sawmill.
However, my grandma and grandpa spent a solid two hours twining wildflowers around the guillotine's supports beams. Mom, Aunt Stephanie, and Olivia managed to whip up an array of food, which smells divine. My brother and his eldest daughter have signed a truce for this special day, but poor Raphael appears dubious. Jade was able to convince Cole Calloway to wear a shirt with buttons.
This may be one step up from a drive-thru chapel, but it's perfect for me and Brigid.
"... the bride," the officiant finishes, rolling her eyes at my antics.
