by Carian Cole
Maybe, hopefully, this is a new beginning.
Chapter 14
Skylar
Three Weeks Later
Today’s the big day.
In some alternate reality, this would be the happiest day of my life. I’d be stepping into a white gown. Knowing me, it’d be something bohemian, long and lacy, with hundreds of tiny buttons. I’d wear vintage leather boots. My father would be pacing outside, waiting to walk me down the aisle. My mother would be trying her hardest to calm my anxiety. Megan would be my maid of honor, and she’d be telling me how pretty I am and how lucky I am that Jude has a great body and hair. I’d be saying yes to the man of my dreams, and we’d be starting our happily ever after.
But the reality is I don’t believe in weddings, Mister Right, or happily ever-afters. And no one is with me on this day except Jude.
The officiant, whose name is Carol, will be here within the hour. The ceremony will be next to the flower garden in the far corner of Jude’s backyard, under an old arbor with vines snaking through it.
What does one wear to her wedding when it’s not a real wedding?
I’ve been standing in front of my closet, chewing on my lip, for five minutes asking myself that question. I finally decide on a flirty, tutu-style white skirt, and a long-sleeved, black-lace body suit. I throw a vintage black-leather motorcycle jacket over it and pull pink Converse sneakers over my white-lace socks. I top it off with a little veil attached to a hair clip, and fan it out over the back of my hair. I smile at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The outfit is super cute. Especially the white skirt. I want to look at least somewhat bride-ish so the officiant believes we’re really getting married. Jude and I talked about this last night—we can’t let her know our vows to have and to hold ’til death do us part are pure bullshit.
If she knew this was a marriage of convenience, she might not marry us.
After I do my makeup and spritz on some perfume I got from Belongings, I go downstairs. I find Jude sitting in a wicker chair in the sunroom with Cassie and Gus who, like us, have become comfortable roommates. Happily coexisting in the same space and staying out of each other’s way.
“Hi,” I say. “Carol should be here soon.”
“Yeah.” He glances up from his phone, and his eyes slowly travel from my face, down the length of my body. My stomach flutters when his attention lingers on my long legs, and a faint grin of admiration tips his lips. That is, until his gaze lands on my feet, and he does a quick double take, his smile disappearing.
“Skylar, you can’t wear pink sneakers.”
I look down at my feet. “Why not?”
“Because they make you look young.”
I cock my head and stare at him. They’re only sneakers. It’s not like I walked in the room with a rattle in my hand. “I am young.”
“I know but we’re getting married. We don’t have to advertise your age to the justice of the peace.”
I cross my arms defiantly. “Lots of people wear pink sneakers. And I’m not doing this if you’re ashamed of me, Jude. Screw that.”
He lets out a sigh and puts his phone on the small table next to him. “I’m not ashamed of you. But you look young for your age. People always assume the worst. I don’t want anyone to think I’ve done something to you.”
I’m not sure where this is coming from—who he thinks this “anyone” is, or what this “something” could be.
“Like what?” I ask. “Slipped me a roofie and dragged me into the backyard to marry you?”
“No, like groomed you or brainwashed you into having Stockholm syndrome or some kidnapping shit.”
I frown at him and reach up to fluff my hair. “I don’t even know what that is.”
He shakes his head. “Never mind. Maybe go put some more adult shoes on just for the ceremony. She’ll be the first person to see us together as a so-called couple and…”
Now I get it. He’s worried how we look together. Other than living in the same house, we’re never together. But I can see how we might look a little bit mismatched to some people. I personally don’t care, but maybe he does.
“Okay,” I say. “But I don’t think different shoes are going to make me look older.”
I go back up to my room and change into the only pair of shoes I have that I think will look adult enough to satisfy him—a pair of black, four-inch pumps. I’ve only worn them once, and that was to a Halloween party last year when I dressed up as cat woman. Megan convinced me the heels would be sexy.
But when I get back downstairs, Jude does another double take when he sees the change of shoes.
“What now?” I ask. “You’re still making a face. I’m sure white heels would be better, but I don’t have white. I—”
Putting his hand up, he stops me from launching into a rambling shoe discussion. “It’s okay. Really. Black is fine. They’re just…” He stares at the shoes. “High.”
I blink at him as he stands. “Um, that’s why they’re called high heels.”
“They’re fine.” He smiles, but that little muscle in his jaw is twitching. And he’s still looking at the shoes. Actually, I think he’s looking at my calves. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You look great. I’m gonna go get dressed.”
I plant myself in the chair he just got out of and look out over the backyard, which looks like an autumn painting. The leaves are changing now—all reds, yellows, and oranges scattered across the grass. Squirrels are skittering around among the acorns and twigs, providing amusement for Gus, who’s got her eyes glued to them.
Living here is even nicer than I thought it would be when I moved in three weeks ago. It’s quiet and peaceful. I sleep better here than I ever did at my mother’s house. Maybe because I feel safer, less anxious. Sharing a house with Jude is comfortable—he’s never made me feel nervous or unwelcome. He’s quiet and independent. A bit broody. But he’s also got a teasing, playful side. I find the mix appealing. I think, though, what I admire most about him is his consistency. He goes to work every morning, comes home and eats dinner, watches TV, then goes to bed. On weekends, he works on the house, or plays pool with a friend. We usually eat dinner and watch a movie together. Growing up, my father was in and out of the house like it had a revolving door. His hours were always different. Sometimes he worked nights, sometimes days. He went out often with his friends to bowl or grab a beer. Many nights he didn’t come home. I never knew when I’d see him—sometimes weeks went by without seeing him. If he ever made plans with me, he usually forgot or had something come up at the last minute.
And then he moved into the camper, which was the beginning of the end.
I also greatly appreciate being able to sleep with my bedroom door open if I want to, and the luxury of coming and going through an actual front door. My days of window climbing are over.
I turn when I hear Jude come down the stairs and enter the room, and this time, it's my turn to do a double take.
His hair is tied in a man bun—the first time I’ve seen it that way. I’ve never been a fan of that style on men, but it looks damn good on him.
So does everything else.
Black on black on black.
A black button-down shirt has taken the place of his usual tee or sweatshirt. The top four buttons are unbuttoned, showing off a glimpse of the tattoo in the middle of his chest. Black jeans and black biker boots. A black leather bracelet with a thick metal clasp twists around his wrist. My heart jumps when I notice the fourth finger of his left hand doesn’t have his sterling skull ring.
Sudden warmth races through my veins.
Soon, I’ll be slipping a ring onto that finger.
He’ll be slipping one onto mine.
This man standing in front of me will legally be my husband.
And I’ll legally be his wife.
Tingles travel up my spine.
Words like mine and his float through my head. Words I shouldn’t be thinking of, because they’re a sham. Not real. But sometime
s, they sneak in. I wonder what it would feel like to be someone else’s special person. To have them be mine.
I quickly shake away the feeling of sadness washing over me. No way am I letting myself catch feelings for Jude. Or any other man, for that matter.
“She’s here.” He offers me his hand, and I let him pull me up. “Let’s go get hitched, Sparkles.”
I take a deep breath, teetering on the spiky heels with wobbly legs. “Okay,” I say, smiling. “Let’s do this.”
He holds my hand as we greet the Justice of the Peace on the front porch and continues to do so as we walk with her to the backyard. I’m not sure if he’s doing it to ‘show’ her we’re a happy couple, or to comfort me.
He’s the first boy (or man, in this case) to ever hold my hand, and I like it too much to care what his reason is.
Carol doesn’t stall or give us time to contemplate. She’s got us standing in front of each other under the vined arbor before I can even blink. She asks us to hold hands, and I try not to giggle with nerves, suddenly feeling a burst of childishness—as if this is a game of pretend dress-up. Like when RingPop proposed to me when we were little.
The adult shoes have put me just shy of eye level with Jude, but I force myself to look down at our hands, or at Carol with her mane of silver hair, as she reads the vows in her smooth, cheerful voice. Jude’s eyes have some sort of magical power that suck me in and make me feel like I can’t think straight. Staring into them while I tell the biggest lie of my life seems wrong. Major bad karma.
My hand shakes when I slip the silver band onto his finger, and so does his when he puts a thin, sparkly ring on mine.
I freeze as I stare at the ring on my finger. We didn’t buy the rings together; we just agreed we’d buy each other’s so we’d have them for the ceremony. Props, for lack of a more fitting term. I got his while shopping with Megan at the mall at one of those sterling silver jewelry stands.
But the ring he just put on my finger looks like real little diamonds set into the rose-gold band. A metal and style I once mentioned to him I loved when we were watching a movie together, and the main character was given one.
I didn’t think he was paying attention.
Apparently, he was.
And now I feel like crying, and I have no idea why.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride!” Carol exclaims happily, closing her little book of vows.
We made a deal there’d be no kissing the bride. We’d kiss on the cheek and hope Carol wouldn’t notice or think we were weird. But when I move in to do so, one of my heels gets stuck in the damp grass, and I stumble into him. His hand grasps my waist to steady me, but I still miss his cheek, and my lips land directly on his mouth.
His grip on my waist tightens and he pulls me closer. His lips open to mine. Our eyes close. My hand has found its way to the back of his neck. Our mouths linger breathlessly when they shouldn’t—warm, and damp— before we slowly, reluctantly, pull apart.
With just one kiss our deal has been shattered, our fate sealed.
Chapter 15
Skylar
“Congratulations!” Carol exclaims as Jude and I pull away from each other. “You make such a beautiful, sweet couple.”
I tear my eyes away from his, which have morphed to the color of pewter. My lips don’t feel like my own anymore after that kiss, and I’m not even sure I can get them to form intelligible words.
“Thanks,” Jude replies, his voice totally steady and normal. “We appreciate you coming out here for us.”
“I can take some photos, if you’d like?” Carol offers.
“We’d love that if you have time,” I say, taking a few careful steps toward my phone, which I put on a large rock a few feet away.
I can’t bring myself to look at Jude. Is he feeling all shaky-quakey inside like I am?
Probably not.
It’s possible the way I’m feeling has nothing to do with the kiss at all. I could be having another anxiety attack. Or it might be because I didn’t eat this morning.
“I always take photographs for my couples,” Carol says with a smile as she takes my phone from me. “Maybe stand in front of that big tree? It has lots of pretty red leaves on it.”
Taking her cue, we stand in front of the tree like two twelve-year-olds afraid to get close to each other. The sudden awkwardness between us is thick enough to slice with a knife. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry about it as Carol fiddles with my phone. Finally, Jude puts his arm around me, and we smile as the camera clicks.
“Beautiful!” she says. “Now, maybe turn to each other and kiss. It’s so cute how shy you two are.”
Oh God.
We turn to face each other. A hint of his familiar, sexy grin is curving the corner of his mouth, and it makes me want to kiss him. He gently pushes my hair back, then palms my cheek with his huge hand, his thumb under my chin, tipping my face up.
I put my hands on his chest and slide them up to his shoulders. As he bends toward me, I close my eyes and lift one of my feet up into that flirty flamingo pose we see in movies.
Our lips touch softly, until he tilts his mouth over mine, capturing my lips with his. A barely audible gasp escapes me and he inhales it with a slow, sensual suck of breath. His hand squeezes my cheek, and then he pulls away, slowly dragging his thumb across my jawline before he turns to Carol and walks off to speak to her.
Leaving me standing there.
That second kiss may have been short, but the way he touched my face and moved his thumb across my cheek with that damn smile and those riveting eyes has my heart pounding.
Even still. Minutes later.
I’ve been kissed before. By at least six guys. I made out with a few of them pretty hot and heavy at parties and at the movies, and even went all the way with two of them. On separate occasions, of course. It’s been a year since I’ve dated, but holy shit, none of them made me feel like Jude did with two short kisses and a touch. No one has ever made my legs weak and my thighs tingle just by touching my cheek. I don’t think any guy I fooled around with touched my face at all, now that I’m thinking about it. They were too busy trying to grope my boobs and my ass.
How did I not know what a cheek caress could feel like?
Is it an older guy thing?
Or a Jude thing?
“You comin’, Sparkles?” he asks, turning to look back at me as he and Carol head toward the house.
I blink at him as he walks through the crunchy leaves. In front of him, Cassie and Gus are watching us from the sunroom of his beautiful house. I’m struck with an odd, wistful feeling. I want to hold this image in my heart forever.
“Yeah.” I take my heels off and follow them barefoot to the front porch. We sign our marriage license, Jude hands Carol a check, and we hug her thank-you before she climbs into her Volkswagen Beetle and drives away.
It all happened so fast. I think the entire thing took less than thirty minutes, and now we’re married.
Legally, anyway.
Wordlessly, we walk inside, and he goes directly upstairs. I linger in the kitchen with the pets until he comes back down a few minutes later wearing his usual black Tee and faded jeans.
“I’m heading out to play some pool,” he says, barely looking at me as he heads straight for the front door. “See ya later.”
“Okay,” I say, but he’s already out the door.
Feeling dazed, I go up to my room and flop on the bed with a sigh. Gus and Cassie join me, probably hoping I’ll take a nap so they can cuddle up against my legs. I’m tempted to crawl under the blankets for the rest of the day. At least these fur babies will chase the loneliness away.
I feel sad and jilted, like the main character in a bad romance movie, and I’m not sure why. We never made plans for after the ceremony. I guess I thought we’d spend the day together afterward. But now, I realize that was stupid. We’re just friends. The ceremony was just a formality. A legal necessity so Jude can add me to hi
s insurance.
Nothing more.
And the kisses? The first one was a clumsy accident, and the second was just for the pictures because Carol told us to kiss.
The cheek touching… Well, that was probably some smooth move Jude puts on the ladies, and he only did it out of habit.
That’s all.
The sound of the front door wakes me, and I sit up in my dark room, confused about what day or time it is. The clock on my nightstand says 9:30 p.m.
Shit. I’ve been asleep for six hours.
Downstairs, Jude is moving around the kitchen making noise. Cassie jumps off the bed and runs out of the room, reminding me I forgot to feed her. Yawning, I slip a pair of yoga pants on under the T-shirt I napped in and quietly tread downstairs.
“Hey,” he says, glancing at me from behind the open refrigerator door. “Were you sleeping?”
“Yeah… I fell asleep reading.”
“Did you eat?” He pulls sliced cheese and butter out of the fridge. “I’m making a grilled cheese.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t eat breakfast or lunch, and I’m gonna guess you didn’t eat dinner. You have to eat something.”
“Lucky—”
“I’ll make you toast.”
“Alright,” I say, leaning against the island. I’m not in the mood to eat, but he’s right. I have to eat every day. I watch him cook his sandwich in a black frying pan, then put two slices of bread in the toaster for me. Everything Jude does with his hands looks easy and fluid, like a magic trick. I find myself watching his hands a lot since I moved in, fascinated by his tattoos and trying to decipher the designs.
