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“I don’t mind small,” Larry says.
Yeah, butIdo. The last person I want at my wedding is our team owner, whom I like less the more time I spend with him. The only people invited are the team, Mom’s book club, and a handful of people Bailey asked me to invite.
I decide that keeping my mouth shut is the best option. I’m choosing to ask forgiveness rather than permission.
“Interesting timing for your wedding,” Grant says, peeling himself off the wall to stand next to Larry’s chair. “Very … fortuitous and some might saycoincidentaltiming.”
“Give it a rest,” Malik says. “We talked about this—there’s nothing wrong with pushing up a timeline. It’s fine.”
“We did talk about it.” Grant glares down at me, looking like an angry vulture with his beady eyes and sharp nose. “And I was very clear that I couldn’t stand by while you committed fraud.”
Malik groans. “It’s not fraud.”
“Sure, it’s not,” Grant says.
Larry waves a dismissive hand toward the team lawyer, who looks about two seconds shy of steam coming out of his ears. “Eli, let me be frank. I’m thrilled with the whole proposal thing. I love it. Fans love it. Everyone loves it.” He pauses, leaning forward to steeple his fingers on the desk. “No one will love it if you’re lying and marrying someone just to stay in the country. But that’s not what you’re doing, is it?”
“No.”
The single syllable is sharp and solid as a punch. I hope Grant can feel it—right in the solar plexus.
I hope he also feels the truth behind the word. Itistrue. Maybe this all started as something else. It may only still be an arrangement for Bailey. But it’s become something else to me.
“You’re making a big gamble, son,” Grant says, shaking his head as he storms out of the office.
I am. But the biggest gamble, the one I’m most concerned about, isn’t immigration. It’s whether my marriage has a chance of becoming something real.
CHAPTER 20
Bailey
“Oh, no you don’t.”Shannon’s fingers curl around my shoulders and shuttle me away from the window.
The one I was trying to climb out of. Or, at least, I was trying the locks. I’m pretty sure it’s painted shut. Though this house is way too fancy to paint windows shut. Maybe there’s a special key or something? They’re rich-people windows. Something I know nothing about.
“Parker’s family is loaded,” I grumble.
Shannon sits me down on the sofa I was on before I tried to escape. “They sure are, though I’m not sure what that has to do with you trying to climb out a window. Wanna talk about why you’re trying to escape, Houdini?”
“It’s hot in here. This dress is … itchy.”
The dress Zella made for me is in no way itchy. It’s perfect. From the fit to the fabric to the design. I’m not sure how she gathered anything from our conversation at her house, where I mostly fan-girled and babbled, but somehow, she managed tocreate something better than I ever could have dreamed up for myself.
Soft and romantic in the skirt and the sleeves—which I requested because of the cold—and fitted in the bodice without being too modestortoo low-cut. When I walk, I look like I’m floating, the gauzy top layer of the skirt trailing me like romantic wispy smoke. I want to wear it forever. I also want to lock it in a standing safe so nothing can ever hurt it.
So, no—the dress isn’t the problem.
What’s itchy, I suspect, is the guilt. And the mild panic that’s been clawing at me for days.
“Your dress is gorgeous. And probably worth more than your car so I’m not letting you rip it while trying to shimmy out a window.” Shannon gives me a look. “For real—let’s discuss, and quickly. Considering there’s only half an hour before Parker returns and tells us it’s time to start.”
Parker has been acting as the unofficial wedding planner for the day, making sure everyone has everything they need, watching the schedule, and keeping Eli out of sight. His one request for the wedding was not to see me before I walk down the aisle.
Though I’d really like to talk through this panic withhim—the only other person who could possibly know what it feels like to enter into a marriage under these circumstances—I couldn’t deny Eli this one thing. It’s … sweet. Further proving my suspicions that he’s a romantic.
But why does he want to be romantic when this isn’t about romance? Wouldn’t he want to save this for a real wedding? The one that could happen once we split up. Which is … still not a thing we’ve talked about.
I rub my arms, the soft fabric on my palms soothing me ever so slightly.
