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He tucks the papers into his jacket and makes his escape down the red-carpeted ice corridor. I can’t move. City Hall? Did we just get married for real?
“Rhett, what did that mean?” Logan asks. “This was fake, right? For show, you said.”
I thought so too … until now, but I don’t want him to worry. I gather him to me. “Don’t worry, dear husband, I’ll take care of it.”
“Are we married, Elkington?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
Fuck. “Maybe just for tonight. I’ll have it annulled by morning. Hell, Father will do that for us. He’s never going to approve of this.” When we get married for real, we’ll have to go to another province so that he doesn’t tamper with the certificate.
He relaxes. “You’re right. Even if we are, it’ll just be for one night. Fucking hell, though, Merc’s gonna kill us.”
“Nah. We’re fine. Now, c’mon. Smile for your adoring fans. See? They were Team RhettLo after all.”
I hold our arms above our heads and the crowd loses their minds. Jack’s still at the side of the ice, giving us a thumbs up, but his helmet’s been replaced by his disgusting lucky hat and his free arm is around Mercy who’s got their babe strapped to his chest. Jack rubs Stanley’s furry head, bending to kiss his son.
“Okay, dear husband. I’ve had enough excitement for one night,” Logan says. “Take me home.”
Chapter37
Tie My Laces, Baby
Logan
Cool Canadian winter sunshine filters across my closed lids, rousing me from slumber. I’m surrounded by a bear otherwise known as Rhett Elkington, my maybe husband. Fuck, did I marry him for real last night? We’re not sure. The only thing I’m sure about is that if we are, getting Rhett to agree to annul it is going to be a war. I smile. It’ll be fun going to battle with him on that one. Rhett’s out cold. That game was a rough one, and he’s beat to shit. I should get him some ice for that eye.
Who knew I was so old school? I want to look after my fake husband. He jostles as I creep out of bed, but he’s a bear in hibernation, and even that doesn’t wake him. Cold air hits me as soon as I leave his warmth, rattling my bones. I steal his furry housecoat and head to his kitchen in search of ice.
My bare feet pick their way across marble that’s cold as ice and there’s a knock on the door. I freeze. We’re in Rhett’s condo in Vancouver. It’s either Jack or one of Rhett’s approved visitors unless someone got by security. We came here last night without any trouble. Rhett expected to be apprehended by his father’s weird mafia, but the only people who accosted us as we walked out of the stadium were my family members.
Biting my lip and taking a breath to fill myself with bravery that I don’t have, I approach the door as footsteps recede and make their way down the hallway. Whoever it was, left. Good. I’m not ready to deal with anyone just now.
Peeking out of the peephole, I catch sight of something by the door. Opening it quietly, I scoop up the portrait-sized cardboard mailer and a breath of whatever horrid cologne Maxwell wears hits my nostrils.
It was him. He dropped this off. It’s addressed to Mr. and Mr. Elkington. My gut takes a dive. Whatever this is, it can’t be good. I should probably wait for Rhett, but I don’t, shutting the door behind me and ripping open the cardboard mailer.
A smaller envelope falls out and I have to tug at the piece of slippery paper the mailer was protecting from damage.
A marriage certificate. Oh fuck, it was real. I’m married to an Elkington. With my heart racing, I tear into the next envelope.
Logan, you were right and you managed to bring about an epiphany for me. That’s all I can bring myself to say to you about it for now, but my approval for this certificate should say it all anyway.
To Rhett, I’m sorry. I have a lot to make up for and I hope this can be a start. Love you dearly, son. I do. I’ll say it until you can believe it again. You’ve found yourself a fiery one, a wise one, and he’ll keep us on our toes.
Maxwell Elkington.
I stare at the certificate. What do I do with this? This is going to make having Rhett annul the marriage a thousand times harder. That’s supposed to light lava-hot pits of rage inside me, but instead, they’re butterfly inducing. I love how much he loves me and wants to mark me with as many stamps of ownership as he can.
And … I don’t hate calling him my husband.
Rhett stumbles out of the bedroom in nothing but a pair of boxers. His skin’s colored with blossoms of yellow-tinted purple. Damn those bruises add sex appeal. The eye is worrisome, though. Right, ice. He needs ice for that.
“What’cha got there, Lo?” he says as I make my way to the fridge freezer.
“Nothing important.”
