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“It’s not too late to walk away,” I whisper, “if you’re having second thoughts.”
His reaction is so subtle most people wouldn’t notice it, but I see the exact moment when my words wound him.
My fingers curl around his before he can storm away. “That’s not how I’m feeling, but you seem…angry to see me.”
The silence stretches so long that I don’t think he’ll answer.
Then Shane dips his head, shifting closer and lowering his voice. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m nervous,” I say with a breathless laugh. “I’ve never gotten married before.”
Instantly, the tension in his shoulders drops. His thumb slides over my knuckles, sweeping back and forth with such delicateness that tingles sprint up my arm.
“I’m nervous too.”
It’s the last possible thing I expected him to say.
“Really? Because you look like you’re two seconds from morphing into James Bond and backflipping out of here while firing a few targeted bullets into the bad guys’ skulls.”
When the corner of his mouth kicks up, a buzzing resonates behind my breastbone.
“Now I’m an international spy? I thought I was a mafia boss.”
I huff. “I can’t keep things straight when you’re turning my brain into scrambled eggs.”
Shane’s grip tightens on my fingers. “I’m glad it’s not just me. That dress almost made me break our napkin contract.”
“It…what?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “It’s hard to string words together when I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.”
Every bone in my body liquifies as I struggle to breathe.
What is air again? And why is it important?
As Shane’s sweet words swirl in my mind, I realize my mistake. I’d written that clause into our impromptu contract because I’d wanted Shane to communicate with me over basic things, but I never considered that his words would knock me sideways. Sentiments from a taciturn man are bound to have more impact than someone who jabbers all the time.
I should have seen this coming. The weak knees, racing pulse, and scratchy throat are natural consequences from hearing something so lovely from such a reserved man.
Then, like a life preserver thrown to a drowning woman, my brain reminds me that—technically—Shane didn’t say that I looked beautiful. He complimented the dress, which undoubtedly deserves a little commotion. This thing is a work of art.
Deep inside, I know I’m fooling myself, but this distinction helps me draw in a breath, and then another.
I smile, and Shane’s returning grin threatens to knock me off my narrowly gained equilibrium.
Then something beeps, and Shane releases me to fish his phone out of his breast pocket and silence an alarm.
“It’s almost time.”
A familiar shape catches my eye when he tucks his phone back into his pocket. With all the tact of a rabid raccoon, my fingers dive into the silk and pull out a tube of grape glucose tablets.
“Why are your pockets like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag?” I ask, shaking the container at him.
“They’re standard pockets.”
“No. You pulled out two sets of paperwork, your phone, and…and this.” I give the tube another jostle.
I don’t know why my mind is melting over my soon-to-be fake husband carrying my preferred flavor of fast-acting sugar. Maybe because my ex couldn’t be bothered to remember my coffee order after three years—an order that’s incredibly easy since I only drink green tea.
