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Per usual, my tone sounds like death warmed over by a malfunctioning microwave.

“My widow’s robe?” Willow does a little shimmy as a mischievous smile blooms over her lips. “It’s the perfect thing to wear before I get dressed. Why? What do you wear while you’re getting ready?”

“Nothing.”

Willow blinks, obviously caught off guard by my honest answer.

“I need to talk to you,” I tell her, releasing my grip on the door.

“Come on in.” She swings her arm wide, and the giant sleeve almost knocks over a lamp.

When I step into her tight entryway, Delilah pops out of the bathroom.

“What are you doing here?” She tsks at me with a makeup brush. “You’re not supposed to see each other before the wedding.”

“I don’t think that counts for fake weddings,” Willow says breezily as she continues toward the tiny galley kitchen.

Delilah grumbles, disappearing into the bathroom, while Willow yanks a lime-green kettle off the stove and fills it at the sink. I almost want to rubberneck at her eclectic and colorful decor, marveling at how Willow managed to pack mismatched furniture and tchotchkes into such a cramped space without making it feel cluttered, but my gaze is fixed on the constellation of daisy pins in her hair.

Did Willow notice my matching daisy boutonniere? I had it made, hoping it would make her smile. Her favorite flower wrapped in her favorite color ribbon—a joyful tangerine that matches her robe.

Realizing I’m being ridiculous, I run a hand through my hair, only to remember I styled it with pomade this morning after finally giving up on sleep. Afterward, I’d spent entirely too long shaving and fussing with my suit until it was just right.

Tugging at my cuffs, I glance up to catch Willow’s unfocused gaze raking down my chest.

“You look…” She clears her throat. “Groom-like.” Willow tilts her head to the side in that analytical way of hers, as if she’s memorizing the contours of my face to recreate later. “I miss your tattoos, though.”

“Really?”

Brielle always hated my tattoos. She used to send me passive-aggressive infographics for tattoo removal services from the medispa she liked to frequent.

“Yeah. They’re beautiful. One of these days, will you let me paint them?”

I’ve never thought about having anyone capture them on canvas, but if Willow wanted to use my tattoo artist’s work as inspiration, why not?

Though my lawyer insisted on doing a thorough background check on Willow, I was more interested in searching for photos of her work. The prestigious art school in Philadelphia posted several on their website from various student showcases. Each piece had been more incredible than the last. The fact that Willow was holding down three part-time jobs instead of having an exhibit in the Guggenheim is baffling, but I don’t know anything about the complexities of the art world.

“Sure.”

She bounces on her toes, and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

Willow turns toward a cabinet, pulling down a box of tea. “I’d start with the flames because they look like the most fun to color in.”

“Oh. I thought…”

My words drop off thinking about Willow painting on me. I imagine her focused gaze trained on my arm, small intentional brush strokes layering color between the black lines. Then my vision hazes, considering all of my tattoos—the ones on my back, my chest…my abs.

“I’m going to grab something from my car,” Delilah says, pulling me from my thoughts and saving me from myself.

The front door slams behind her just as the kettle whistles. Willow ignores it, reaching above the range in search of mugs. Her fingertips graze the handle of a hot-pink mug covered in flamingos as one of her faux-fur sleeves brushes the burner.

The fabric ignites instantly, but Willow’s too focused on retrieving the mug. With one large step, I wrap an arm around her waist, lifting her away from the burner while my other hand closes over her smoldering sleeve, extinguishing the flame. My palm stings from the melted plastic, but it’s not much worse than catching a line drive out of the pocket.

“What was that for?” she asks, breathless.

“You were on fire.” I lift her singed sleeve.

She groans, tilting her head back against me. “I promise I’m not always a catastrophe.”