by R. S. Lively
I notice Emma is looking just to the side of me as she repeats the words Mr. Kleinfelder says, as if she doesn't want to look me in the eyes as she says them. I do the same when it's my turn. That makes it feel more like an act, like the freshmen in the theater department that plant their thumbs over the mouths of their co-stars when a kiss is called for in any of productions. In what seems like a matter of seconds since it all began, we've slipped the rings onto each other's fingers, and Mr. Kleinfelder, with tears shimmering in his eyes, pronounces us man and wife. As I lean toward Emma to comply with his declaration that I can kiss my bride, I wonder if Emma might have been onto something when she asked if this was unethical. I'm suddenly compelled to press my thumbs over her lips.
She tastes sweeter when our lips meet, and I realize she tastes like peppermint. There were candy canes still dangling on the branches of a small tree in the corner of the bridal suite, and she must have snagged one before coming to the ceremony. Our eyes flash over each other when our lips part, but I take her hand and we turn to face the faux audience. They grin at us, and I guide Emma down the aisle and toward the tent set up for Brandy and Ethan, now for us, after the ceremony. As soon as we step inside, Emma's hand falls away from mine.
"What now?" she asks.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"What do we do now? We did the ceremony. But what next?"
"I think the reception," I say.
"The reception?" Emma asks. "We’re the only people here, Grant. Our ‘guests’ are caterers and your staff. This wedding wasn’t planned for us, remember?”
"It was planned for two people who don’t want to get married anymore, remember? At least they already paid for the event."
"They paid?" she asks. "Even though they didn't go through with the wedding?"
"One thing I learned very quickly in this industry is not to wait until after fulfilling a dream to ask for payment. Not only does that put you in the position of having your client skip out on you, but having money invested in the experience tends to motivate people to actually stick with it."
"And you don't do refunds," she says, a statement and not a question.
"Don't even consider them. From the moment they contact me, I'm working, and I get compensated. If they decide after everything I've put into creating their experience for them that they don't want to go through with the plan, that's their choice."
"So, the party is still going to happen."
"Tiny hors-d'oeuvres and all," I say. I feel a smile curl onto my lips, and I take a step closer to Emma. Wrapping my hands around her waist, I pull her closer to me, and kiss her peppermint-flavored lips again. "Come on. If we're going to fake this, let's do it right. There's no point in holding back now. Let's really enjoy it, even if it's just this one night."
"Because at midnight I'm going to turn into a pumpkin?"
I lean closer and run the tip of my tongue along the side of her neck to her ear.
"A pumpkin pie, maybe," I murmur. She giggles, and I grin at her. "Come on. Let's celebrate our marriage, wifey."
Emma
1 A.M….
"The milk and cookies at midnight were a nice touch," I say as Grant, and I stumble into the honeymoon suite. "I've never taken a shot of milk from a cookie cup to toast the New Year before."
"It was tasty," Grant says.
"What keeps the milk in the cup?" I ask. "I mean, the cups were made out of chocolate chip cookies, and people dunk their chocolate chip cookies in milk to make them all soft and crumbly. So how did the milk stay in the cups?"
"The insides were painted with chocolate," Grant says. "Didn't you notice?"
"No," I laugh. "And I toasted the New Year about four times."
I know I've had just a touch too much to drink. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm kiss-a-leprechaun-on-the-mouth-and-dance-the-hula drunk, but I'm certainly not about to bet all my chips on my ability to walk a straight line, either. I hadn't been entirely convinced when Grant suggested we go ahead and enjoy the reception, but by the time we got back into the hotel and walked into the ballroom, I was glad we did. The reception was a full-blown party, and there were enough glittery eye masks, and spinning, sparkling disco balls that I couldn't resist getting caught up in the New Year's Eve thrill of it all.
Grant and I had gone all-in on being the happy newlywed couple at the reception. The ‘guests’ were enthusiastic about celebrating, no matter what it was they were celebrating, and Grant and I really threw ourselves into it. We accepted every toast. We kissed in response to every time a guest bounced the handle of their fork against the side of a champagne flute, and Grant held me close as we danced to every song. The laughter and energy of the night have my body buzzing, and I'm nowhere near ready to end the night.
Grant seems to have the same thought. We're only a few steps into the room when his hands take my waist and spin me around to face him. His face dips, and his mouth catches mine. His tongue tastes like chocolate and champagne as it slips between my lips. I drop the heels dangling from my fingers and wrap my arms around his neck to hold Grant closer. Our kiss deepens, and he guides me backward toward the bed.
Someone had created the perfect cliched heart out of flower petals in the middle of the white comforter, and Grant brushes them away with one sweep of his arm.
"You didn't even take a picture," I say.
"I'll draw an artist's rendition," he says. "Right now, I think it's time for us to celebrate our marriage."
Grant turns me around, and I feel his fingers make quick work of the smooth satin buttons running from my neck all the way to the hemline of my gown. I feel the cool air of the hotel room on my back, and Grant's hands slide into my dress. They glide up my ribs, and up onto my breasts, cupping and kneading into them. My head falls back against his shoulder, and I moan into his touch. Grant rolls my nipples back and forth between his fingers, his lips brushing along the curve of my neck and shoulder. I take hold of the fabric at my shoulders, and peel the lace away from my arms. Once loose, the dress falls the rest of the way down my body, hesitating at my hips only long enough for me to wriggle it free. I step out of the pool of fabric, and Grant gives an appreciative sound as he steps back. I glance over my shoulder and see him looking me up and down, his eyes drinking in the white lingerie I wore under the gown. His eyes meet mine, and I can see the hunger and desire burning in them.
Grant runs one hand up the back of my thigh and over my hip to my panties. Slipping his fingers under the elastic of one leg, he lifts my panties, pulling them out of the way. I'm already wet, and the air brushing over me sends a shiver along my spine. In an instant, the cool air is replaced by Grant's warm breath, and I feel his tongue sweep over my most sensitive parts. My head falls back, and I cry out at the intense sensation. He moves closer, and his mouth settles over my pussy. Grant begins to lick and tease until my legs are shaking on either side of him. My hands grip the comforter as I try to maintain control over my reactions. I don't want to give over to the feelings too soon, but I can't handle his masterful attention, and in seconds, my body is spasming with a powerful orgasm. Grant continues to swirl his tongue over my swollen clit before climbing to his feet. I hear the drawer in the nightstand open and close, and the distinctive sound of a condom wrapper tearing open. The tip of his cock touches my entrance, and in one sharp thrust, Grant fills me.
My body welcomes him, opening to him like it was crafted for this very purpose. I push my hips back into him, forcing him deeper until there is a hint of sharp, delicious pain. Grant's hands grip my hips tightly, giving him leverage to thrust into me hard and fast. He's unrelenting as he responds to my cries with greater intensity and passion. There's nothing gentle or cautious about his movements. He wants me with the same primal hunger I feel. I can feel the soft fabric of his tux against the backs of my thighs, and the cufflinks at his wrists digging into my hips. Something about him being fully dressed makes the situation even sexier, and I part my legs further to open up more to him.
Suddenly, he slams into me as deep as he possibly can, and I feel his shaft throbbing as he spills into the condom. His animal-like roar barely muffles my scream as my body tightens around him. We pause just like this, neither of us moving, our bodies melding as our minds drift away for a few blissful seconds. Finally, our bodies both drop forward onto the bed. The weight and heat of him fully envelops me, and I feel like I could stay here forever.
I drift in and out of sleep for a few minutes, but can’t fall asleep for good. Grant slides off me, his eyes meeting mine.
"Are you tired?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"No. Are you?"
He shakes his head.
"It's New Year's Day," he says.
"It's not our wedding day anymore," I tease.
"Well, then let's celebrate being an old married couple."
I laugh, and we both climb off the bed to get dressed. Once I’m fully clothed, I turn to see Grant coming out of the second room of the suite toward me. He's also changed, and is carrying two glasses of champagne.
"Another toast?" I ask, taking one of the flutes.
"Of course," he says. "We have all this champagne Brandy and Ethan ordered just sitting around."
I nod, taking a sip of the effervescent drink.
"And we all know how poorly wine responds to time," I say.
"Absolutely. It's very fragile. It has to be used up fast."
In the interest of not letting it go to waste, Grant and I finish off the bottle before heading out. Before I know it, we're in the back of his car, his tongue gliding along my neck as the driver brings us into the nearest town in hopes of finding a celebration undampened by a grumpy hotel manager. Even blowing confetti at him from one of the party favors didn't liven him up – very disappointing.
The driver suddenly pulls up to a curb, and the two of us spill out onto the crowded sidewalk. Grant leans through the window, says something to the driver, and then turns to face me. I take the hand he offers to me, and we join the crowd bouncing from bar to bar along the strip. Grant finally chooses a venue and pulls me into a tight, small club filled with flashing neon lights. It's thrilling and disorienting, and I feel like I've lost touch with reality.
"Happy New Year!" Someone shouts behind us.
"Our wedding was last night!" Grant shouts.
I feel my cheeks burn, but I can't help but enjoy the cheer that rises up around us. Grant sweeps me up off my feet, and suddenly I'm sitting on the bar, another drink in my hand, and people around me shouting their congratulations. It's heady and exciting, and I throw away my last bit of caution. Since I'm only going to be Grant's wife for one night, I may as well make the most of it.
Chapter Fourteen
Emma
New Year’s Day
I wake up completely disoriented. I have no idea what day it is, much less what time it is, and my head feels like it's been stuffed full of cotton and bashed up against a wall a few times. Blankets and sheets are tangled around my legs, and I feel like a bobby pin has lodged itself in the back of my ear. I hear Grant groan beside me.
At least I’m not alone in my suffering.
I try to disentangle myself from the blankets and slide out of bed without waking Grant up, but as soon as I shift, his eyes open. His first second of consciousness seems optimistic, but then his face crumples, and I figure he's experiencing the same pain I am.
"Good morning," he sighs. "I think."
His rolls over onto his back and smashes his hand down on the nightstand, then grabs his phone. Squinting at it, he turns the screen toward me.
"Good afternoon," I say.
"Do you think room service will bring me fried eggs and bacon this late?" he asks.
I look at him sideways.
"Has anyone not given you what you want?" I ask.
"Yes," he says. "Not often, but yes."
"Well, after the amount of money you poured into this hotel, I'm fairly certain they’d bring you whatever you’d like. You could call and ask for a full Thanksgiving dinner, and they’d fall all over themselves to make it."
Grant crawls out of bed and slowly walks toward the bathroom. When he emerges, I take his place, closing the door to the sound of him calling room service. Out of the corner of my eye, I get a glimpse of myself, and my heart stops briefly. The chic, elegant hairstyle I'd worn for the ceremony has transformed into a bird’s nest with pins sticking out in places I'm sure they weren't originally in. The makeup on half my face has smeared down, and my mascara has given me deep, dark raccoon eyes.
"Damn," I mutter to myself. "I really let myself go."
This was intended to be a brief visit, but that's not going to cut it. This is a full-on rescue mission. I turn on the shower and strip out of a pair of pajamas I have no memory putting on. I dig all the pins out of my hair and toss them onto the counter before ducking into the shower and letting the hot water stream over me. It seems to melt away some of the fog, and I'm thinking more clearly by the time I've washed away all of the makeup and reclaimed my hair from the hairspray. I didn't bring any extra clothing into the bathroom with me, so I slip into one of the plush robes hanging from the door and walk back into the room, still brushing through my hair. I wish I had makeup on, but it doesn't seem practical to scurry out of the room, grab my makeup bag, and dive back into the bathroom before Grant sees me. I'm just going to have to show him my face in all its naked glory.
Room service has already gotten there by the time I walk back into the room, and Grant is sipping a glass of orange juice like it will restore him to life.
"I told you they'd pull through for you," I say.
He offers me a glass of juice, and I reach for it. As my hand wraps around the glass, I notice the band sparkling on my finger. Memories from our fake wedding rush back to me, and I can't help but smile. I take a sip of the juice and am surprised at how much it perks me up. Picking up a piece of toast from the tray, I bite it first, then carry it over to the bed. As I sit down, I realize that something is bothering me. I can't put my finger on it, but something is pricking the back of my mind. Working my way through the piece of toast, I look back at the band on my left ring finger. For some reason, it looks different than I remember. Grant had purposely chosen the simplest ones available because they were fast. All the jeweler had to do was grab them out of the case, pop them in a box, and we were on our way.
The band around my finger now, though, doesn't look like a simple gold band. Instead, it's encrusted with tiny diamonds, reminiscent of the ones embedded in the ice cream cone on the charm bracelet Grant gave me for Christmas. I run my finger along the diamonds and look up at Grant.
"When did you get this ring?" I ask.
Grant looks at me quizzically.
"Yesterday in Magnolia Falls," he says. "You were there."
I shake my head.
"No," I say. "Not that band. This one."
I hold up my hand to show him the diamond ring.
Grant looks at it, and I can see the same expression of confusion sweep across his face. He doesn't remember buying it either. I stand up to walk back for the breakfast tray just as he plucks a folded card off the side of the cart. He opens it, and I see his eyes widen slightly.
"Maybe it has something to do with this," he says. He holds the card out to me, and I take it. I read through it a few times before a particular detail pops out at me.
"'Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Laurence! Established January 1st.'" I read. I look up at him. "January 1st?" I ask. "The wedding was on New Year's Eve
. December 31st. Why does it say January 1st?"
"I'm not sure," Grant says. "What do you remember about last night?"
That is not inherently a frightening question. Asking me for a quick review of the night shouldn't frighten me as much as it does, and yet it's making my stomach feel like a flock of butterflies is practicing evasive maneuvers.
"I remember the ceremony," I say. "I remember the reception. I remember... after the reception." The way Grant's eyes flicker down to where my cleavage peeks out of my robe tells me he remembers that, too. "After that, things get a little fuzzy. I know we weren't done celebrating, so we headed into town." My voice starts to slow as the memories of last night become hazy. "There was a bar. I think there was a beaker full of some fruity drink. There was maybe a dog? That also could have been part of a dream, though. I found a sticker from a mango on my ass, so apparently we got a healthy snack somewhere down the line." I let out a breath. "How about you?"
"You touched all the high points I can think of," he says. He takes the card from my hand and looks at it again. "It's not signed by the manager," he says.
"What?" I ask.
"The card. It's signed by Jerry Williams, not the hotel manager." He turns the card to show me. "This," he points at the signature, "isn't the manager."
"Who is it, then? And why are they sending us a congratulations card with breakfast?"
Grant shakes his head.
"I don't know." He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through it. "Do you have any pictures from last night?"
Suddenly I realize I don't know where my phone is. I look around the room, hoping I’ll see it sitting on one of the various surfaces, but I don't. I dig through the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, then under the jacket draped over the dresser. Running out of options, I start looking in drawers. When I get to the nightstand, I peek in and find not only my phone, but the piece of paper it's sitting on. My heart thumps heavily in my chest, and my hands shake as I reach in and pick up the paper.
