Page 55

I know joy is supposed to be infectious, but I’m not feeling it.

“Jumping the gun,” Troy mutters, indicating a seat.

“What? Oh.” A couple at the end of the seating is making out—really going for it. I feel that telltale sting in my cheeks.

“I wonder how many people there are before us.”

“Acne?” I demand, whipping the numbered ticket out from Troy’s hand.

He gives a chuckle and straightens the pleats in his pants as he sits. “You had acne and a face like a potato.” Lounging back in his seat, he spreads his arm out behind me. “I told Dolores I took you to prom as a favor to the brother you don’t have.”

“Shameful,” I mutter, my own back as straight as a pole, both hands clasped around my flowers. I feel so aware of him, the shape of him, that it’s not even a little bit funny.

“I made up for it.” He pulls me suddenly back. I suppose it wouldn’t do for us to be the only couple not exhibiting togetherness. “I told her you were beautiful now,” he murmurs in my ear. The woman seated to Troy’s left smiles. Trust him to play it so perfectly for the audience.

“I love your dress,” I say as I catch her eye, unwilling to dwell on what isn’t real.

“Thank you, your . . . coat too.”

“She’s keeping me in suspense,” Troy says. “Not allowed a look at her dress until we’re in the room.” If only he knew.

“So cute,” she gushes.

“Not really. She’s got terrible dress sense. She’s probably wearing something made from chip packets under there.”

I playfully thump his arm. “You said you’d marry me in whatever—that I could wear what I like. And I like Kettle chips!”

The poor woman seems mildly horrified. Until a second later when her number is called. We both manage to hang on to our laughter until she’s gone. But our amusement dies almost immediately, and we’re left looking at each other.

He has the best eyes, burnt sugar with espresso at the rim. And in a few more minutes, I’m going to be married to him.

I, Clara Forbes, am going to be married to Troy Templeton.

It’s been a long while since I told myself that, and my stomach flips in a not-unpleasant way. Troy clears his throat and looks away, the first of us to come back to his senses. I sit straight in my seat again.

“I don’t hear any crinkles.” The ghost of his smile is visible in profile as he leans forward, pressing his elbows to his knees.

“That’s because I used Pringles cans.”

“Can’t wait.” His gaze drops to his shoes while mine remains resolutely ahead as we both fall quiet, lost to our internal worlds. Though I can’t speak for where his mind takes him, mine gets to spinning again. I thought I had butterflies earlier, but I think they might be albatross. With teeth like velociraptors that seem to be gnawing at my insides.

How will we navigate this marriage?

The lies we’ll tell, who we’ll tell.

Living together under one roof. I know we made rules and stuff, but how will we manage to remain civil?

Will he tell his mom? Will she be devastated and take out a hit on me?

What will I do with my time now that I won’t be working?

Now, I totally get Troy’s point of view here, because tending bar doesn’t fit the narrative of trust fund baby. I’m not sure what or how, but I’ll need to find something befitting my new station as a billionaire’s wife. An odd feeling runs through me at that thought. One I choose not to identify.

Better get on that plan, because I cannot be the little woman at home. First off, I can’t cook. But would he expect me to cook? I mean, I would cook. If I could. Just not as a wife, but as a roommate who appreciates the $100,000 loan he just made me. Even if it was detailed as a gift in the prenup as a surprise.

I hate that he did that, even if $100K is pocket change to him. It feels like a signing bonus, but I get I’ll need to look the part for our stupid future dates. I’ll pay him back as soon as I have my trust. At least we agreed on that, even if it isn’t detailed in said prenup.

First on my agenda is a facial. See if I can’t get my skin to glow like his friendly redhead, Hannah. She looked stunning that night—that night I was in an apron and ugly shoes. Not that she would’ve noticed me. Troy says they’ve only ever been friends, and I brushed that off like I didn’t care. I care more than I ought to.