Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“We’re almost ready,” he says in English, obviously for my benefit.
My heart gallops.
“To do the deed? Get spliced,” I add when he doesn’t reply. “Yoked, hitched. Do the two becoming one thing,” I add, crossing the terrace as I bring my index fingers together. It seems my Spice Girls reference goes over my Raif’s head.
They were more Heather’s thing, anyway.
“Do you have your phone?”
I absently pat my back pockets. “No. Have you seen it?”
Raif reaches for my backpack, tugging it to the edge of the vast dining table. I pull open the leather toggle, widening the opening.
“I don’t suppose you have a dress in there,” he asks quietly.
“Yeah. It has a six-foot train and lacy mutton sleeves. Of course I—why would I have a dress?”
“This is proving a little trickier than I expected,” he mutters.
“What is?”
“Sẽnor Moreno—the one with the pink bow tie? He’s a commissioner for oaths.”
“Right.”
“He’s here because of the paperwork. And to collect his not inconsiderable fee,” he mutters unhappily. “Apparently, his sense of propriety is offended at the ramshackle style of our wedding.”
“Civil ceremony.”
Amusement flickers in his expression.
“You can laugh, but I feel the difference matters.”
“Maybe to you.”
I’ve never thought about the difference, to be honest. But that’s not to say I wouldn’t have spun him a whole tale about my belief in the sacrament of a church wedding over a mere civil ceremony if I thought it might hit a nerve.
“I bet we wouldn’t have had this trouble in Vegas,” I mutter.
“It would’ve taken less greasing of palms, too. But the distance and the time didn’t suit either of us.”
It makes me wonder what he has to be back in London for.
“So who’s the other one?” My eyes dart over his shoulder to where the taller of the two men is now enjoying the view on the terrace.
“Sẽnor Martin. He’s the registrar.”
My stomach flips. The one who’ll marry us.
“Well, I don’t have a dress.” I look up again from the depths of my backpack. “Maybe we’ll have to come back another day?” That sounded entirely too hopeful.
“Try again.”
How strange. And such confliction. Do I want to marry him? Not really. I don’t particularly want to marry anyone. But do I want a million in my bank? Absolutely, I do. And then there’s this tiny part of me that wouldn’t mind another go with his tongue. Not that I will in a marriage that’s strictly business.
He made that clear enough.
In the depths of the black canvas, my fingers fold around a wad of delicate fabric. “The best I have is a beach cover-up.”
“What, like a blanket?”
“Who takes a blanket to cover up at the beach?” I give my head an exasperated shake. “This.” I pull a little of the white crocheted garment out of my bag. “This is what you put on over a bikini.”
“You brought a bikini?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, I’m just confused by your processing.”
“You said ‘sunny climate,’ so I packed accordingly.”
But he’s still frowning.
“I didn’t think I’d need a wedding dress,” I whisper hiss.
“Not even with a train and mutton sleeves?” The corner of his mouth curls.
“Don’t forget the hooped skirt. It’s mandatory.” My gaze slides over his shoulder to the men, then back again. “I thought we’d do it in what I’m standing in.”
“It wouldn’t be a first time,” he replies silkily.
“Not do it, do it.” Urgh, I sound so juvenile. I stuff my cover-up back into my backpack.
“I think I might like to marry you in a bikini.”
“I’m not sure it’ll fit you,” I say, ignoring the flame of pleasure his tone ignites.
“I’m serious. We’ll do it out by the pool. Put on the bikini and coverall—”
“Up. It’s cover-up.” I frown. “And it doesn’t cover a lot at all, to be honest.”
His eyes fall closed. Frustration probably, rather than him imagining me in it.
“Please,” he says, opening them again. “Put it on. If for no other reason than to give the old goat something to smile at.”
“I’m not the entertainment,” I retort.
“You’re more entertaining than you think.”
“I’m not providing him with an opportunity to perve at me!”
“I don’t think you’re his type,” he adds, glancing back at the man in the matching pink silk vest and bow tie.
“All the more reason for you to wear it.”
“Lavender.” His hand suddenly covers mine. “Bottom line? He wants to be able to say this didn’t look fake. I think we need to give him that.”
Crunch time.
My wedding. On the terrace. Overlooking the Mediterranean.
In the time it took me to shower, braid my hair, pin it up, and slap a little makeup on, the terrace has been turned into some semblance of a wedding venue. Complete with a designated aisle. I’m not going to ask where the arch of greenery has come from or who scattered pink rose petals between the two rows of chairs.
Maybe he’s worried I might get lost on the way.