Accidental Love

by Ryan, Emma

  But the heat on my skin and the sweat dampening my palms screamed that this was anything but a lie.

  Fuck. I needed to reign myself in.

  At least I wasn’t the only person thrown off balance by our kiss. There was a glassy look to MacKenzie’s eyes, a flushed color to her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell with a breathless gasp. I couldn’t help but be captivated—she was drop-dead gorgeous when she was flustered.

  “I’m happy to pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant said, an almost amused laugh in her tone. Grant clapped me on the back, pulling my attention from Mackenzie.

  “Congratulations, my man. You’re ball-and-chained like the normal mortals.”

  “Normal mortals?”

  “You know, the weirdos all about the nuclear family and all that.”

  Well. Macks and I weren’t going to go nuclear family any time soon. Or, rather, at all, I had to remind myself. Pushing away the thought of her belly rounded with a baby, of how beautiful she’d look pregnant, I met Mackenzie’s eyes with a smile.

  “Ready to sign our papers, Mrs. Prince?” I asked. My words were light, but as I spoke the last two words, my voice dropped slightly.

  “Of course, Mr. Prince.” She squeezed my hand as our certificate was brought forward—a thick, cream-colored stretch of paper with filigree embossed at the corners and along the edges. Our names were printed in faux calligraphy, and for a measure of old-school charm, we were supposed to sign our names with a fountain pen.

  In hindsight, maybe that wasn’t a great choice. As soon as I put the pen to paper, ink splashed out too quick, splotching onto the thick parchment.

  “A little eager, are we, Mr. Prince?” Mackenzie teased as I finished signing my name with the mini puddle of ink that had pooled on the paper. She laughed, taking the pen from my hand for her turn.

  The universe must’ve had a sense of humor, because as soon as Mackenzie began to write, not only did the ink leak out again but it squirted, spattering her white dress with a thick, black stain. She blinked comically, and without thinking, rubbed the black ink, smearing it into the fabric of the dress in an ill-fated attempt at cleaning up her mess. It blackened her fingers and the once-pristine fabric.

  “Oh, fucking cuntwaffles,” she muttered, and the officiant’s eyebrows shot up.

  Damn. If Macks really got revved up, we’d get kicked out of here before we could finalize the marriage. I’d heard her go on a tear before, and she could come up with the most creatively offensive curses of anyone I’d ever met.

  Before I could say anything, reassure her it was okay—I didn’t give a shit about the dress, and I’d happily buy her a new one if she wanted—Mackenzie snorted. Then she full out laughed, wriggling her fingers at me.

  “I wonder if this counts as a happy accident?”

  I tilted my head. “Is that… are you making a Bob Ross reference?” I laughed along with her, shaking my head.

  “I’m surprised you remember enough of Bob Ross to get it.”

  “How could I forget? Used to be your favorite pastime, and you always made me marathon them with you.”

  “Made you?” she said, turning her attention back to the certificate to finish signing her name on the now very messy declaration of marriage. “You loved Bob Ross night; don’t stand there and pretend you didn’t.”

  Well. I couldn’t argue that point; Bob Ross nights were the best back in the day. Lots of junk food and soda to drink while Mackenzie let Bob Ross videos—recorded on VHS—play in the background while we mused about life and she worked on a new sketch, painting, or art project for class.

  Grant, still playing along as our witness, had to sign too. He, however, had his own pen he pulled out of the inside of his suit jacket as opposed to writing using our poor, faulty fountain pen. He rolled his eyes at our antics, quipping something about the two of us being ‘unsophisticated weirdos.’

  With all three signatures laid down, the ceremony was over. That was it; Mackenzie and I were married. There was a sense of comforting finality in it, though the reason I was here—my father and his strange requirement for my inheritance—was the last thing on my mind.

  Mackenzie Henson was my wife.

  Holy fucking shit.

  * * *

  From the courthouse, Grant ran off for a ‘date,’ which in Grant speak meant he was probably going to end up getting laid. Lucky him; although I couldn’t find it in me to be the slightest bit jealous. He was leaving me with the most beautiful woman in the whole damn city, after all.

  Mackenzie and I sent him off with a wave and a laugh after he made the announcement. Left to our own devices to handle our ‘reception,’ we left the courthouse, newlyweds, hand in hand. I hadn’t really made a plan for this part of the day, but I felt like we should do something to commemorate the moment.

  I turned to Mackenzie as we trotted down the courthouse stairs.

  “Want something to eat? You know, to celebrate.”

  She gave me a bemused smile and squeezed her fingers around mine. I wondered if maybe the reason she hadn’t let go yet was because she was enjoying having her hand in mine as much as I was enjoying my hand in hers.

  “Sure. What’d you have in mind?” She smirked, nudging at me. “Nathan’s?”

  I scoffed. “Hardly. Something a little nicer.”

  “Umm, you do realize I have ink all over me?”

  “Do you care?”

  She laughed. “Of course I don’t.”

  “Then I don’t, either.”

  We ended up taking a quick trip through the city, down to a Japanese restaurant called Kyoto’s that was fitting for a post-wedding feast.

  “Oh wow,” she commented as we pulled into the small parking lot behind the main building. “This is way fancier than Nathan’s.”

  “Only the best for a Prince.”

  She rolled her eyes at the double entendre. I smirked at her, taking her hand as I led her in.

  Kyoto’s was a high-end, relatively new Japanese restaurant owned by a friend of mine. It boasted the commercial appeal of an all-you-could-eat sushi buffet, while maintaining the feel and presentation of a true authentic menu of Japanese dishes. Personally, I was a fan of pairing sushi with the sautéed octopus dish, but to each their own.

  Seated, with drinks ordered, we glanced at the menus before our server came by to take our orders. I took the time to peruse the offerings, but I knew what I wanted from the sushi menu already. So instead, my gaze slid over the top of the menu to Mackenzie. She twirled one of her thick curls of hair between her ink-stained fingers, humming as she bit her bottom lip.

  Goddamn. She was so gorgeous—

  The buzz and ring of my phone in my pocket yanked me from my thoughts, and I pulled it out with a groan.

  Mackenzie gave me a quizzical glance as I answered the phone.

  “Williams,” I said, knowing the only reason a board member would be calling was if there was something important going. Of all the fucking days… “I told Anna I wouldn’t be available today.”

  “Yes, she passed along that message,” he answered, his voice gruff from years of cigar smoke and harsh booze. “But something’s come up with an investor. It requires your immediate, in-person attention.”

  I frowned. “I see. Hold on.”

  Putting the call on hold, I looked over to Mackenzie. “Something’s come up at work,” I explained. “I’d tell them no but…”

  I trailed off, figuring she’d understand. This whole thing was a sham, after all. Maybe it was for the best we wouldn’t have a chance to celebrate our ‘wedding’ together. Why make more of it than it was?

  The light in her face, there bright and shining just moments before, faded out instantly. She tried to catch it, giving me a smile, but it didn’t fill her face like it usually did.

  “It’s okay. You, uh… have to go?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I need to be there. I mean, I could probably get out of it—”

  “No, don’t.” She shoo
k her head. “It’s work. It’s not like this is a real reception.”

  The smile remained on her face, and she went back to looking over the menu.

  “Right… I’ll leave my card for you? At the very least you can still cash in on the menu here.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I took the call off hold, keeping my eyes on Mackenzie. “Hey, Williams? Yeah, I’ll be in in about half an hour. Don’t start the meeting without me.”

  I hung up and stood, adjusting my suit jacket. I took Mackenzie’s hand, making her look up to me. I saw the disappointment there, no matter how much she tried to hide it. Mackenzie had always been an open book in her expressions—so easy to read, especially if someone knew where and how to look.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” I promised. “Just the two of us.”

  She shook her head, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she looked back at the menu. “No, don’t worry about it. You don’t owe me anything. Really.”

  I pressed my lips to her temple in apology, but this kiss felt nothing like our kiss at the courthouse had. It felt forced. Unreciprocated. I didn’t know what to make of her reaction, or the way my heart twisted at the look on her face, but I didn’t have time to figure it out now.

  Duty called.

  * * *

  “I don’t understand. You knew about this? You knew it was coming, but you’re just now telling me?”

  Mackenzie’s voice filtered in across the line, a mix of confusion, accusation, and hurt. I stood in the middle of JFK International, a single carry-on suitcase with me, and my father off somewhere getting a beer before boarding.

  In less than an hour, I’d be on a plane to Tokyo.

  I pushed my hand through my hair. I couldn’t really blame her for being mad at me, for not understanding.

  “I didn’t know how to tell you,” I confessed. “Dad’s been… he hasn’t been right since Mom died. He’s had an awful time coping. He wants to move closer to the Tokyo office and do more with the business—”

  “But what does that have to do with you?”

  “I mean—Macks, I can’t not go with him.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

  I knew. Of course I knew. She meant why hadn’t I told her sooner. She meant why had I waited until I was almost on the plane to tell her I was leaving. She meant why had I not trusted her enough with what was going on in my life to include her in it. There was no right answer—there was no easy answer.

  “I didn’t want to say goodbye,” I said finally, clearing my throat as I felt it tightening up. “I didn’t want to have to look you in the eye and say that I was going away. You don’t understand—”

  “No, I don’t.” There were tears in her voice, and I closed my eyes, hating that I’d put them there. “But I’ve always tried, haven’t I?”

  “Yeah… yeah… you have.”

  Silence fell between us, and she sighed softly. It sounded like she was bracing herself for something.

  “Okay. Fine. So you’re moving. Your dad needs some time to process this. You’re going with him because it’s the right thing to do. I can handle that, Walker. Just don’t… please don’t shut me out, okay?”

  * * *

  It had been easy to say yes to Macks that day.

  Don’t shut her out? I could never shut her out. I’d had no idea how I was going to cope without her in my life. She’d been the brightest spot of light in my existence since my mother had died of cancer.

  But after the final message I left her, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to call her anymore. It had hurt too much. I’d always meant to man up and reach out to her again… but somehow, it had never happened. One week turned into a month turned into a year. I was buried under work, trying to be the son my father needed me to be, the businessman our company demanded me to be.

  The look on Mackenzie’s face as I turned from her and left the restaurant made me feel the weight of that choice I’d made all those years ago. She was strong—always had been. I knew she’d be all right.

  But I’d disappointed and hurt her, and I hadn’t even meant to.

  Guess even on the best of days, some things don’t change.

  7

  Mackenzie

  It was strange, walking into Walker’s house alone. I’d decided to get a box—well, three actually, stuffed to the gills with sushi and a healthy serving of gourmet crab rangoon—to go. It was better than sitting in Kyoto’s by myself after Walker left. I knew I shouldn’t feel slighted by his leaving, but I did. I knew it didn’t make sense to feel like it was an insult to our vows when it hadn’t even been a real wedding, but here we were.

  The movers were long gone. They’d left boxes of my things stacked neatly in three-box high towers interspersed between expensive black leather furniture and the occasional modern art sculpture—not really my kind of art, but maybe I could convince Walker to invest in a proper Picasso at some point.

  There was something cold and sterile about the house. It was big and lavish, but it wasn’t very welcoming. Maybe it felt that way because I’d come here alone. Some part of me I didn’t like to admit existed had pictured me and Walker coming back here hand in hand, laughing after a little too much alcohol and a belly full of food.

  At least I’ll have the food part down soon enough.

  I didn’t have the energy to deal with unpacking yet, so I grabbed the suitcase I’d packed earlier in the day and headed upstairs. There were about a half dozen bedrooms, all beautifully furnished, but none of them appeared lived in, so I picked one at random and set my suitcase on the bed.

  Well, okay, it wasn’t totally random.

  I guessed Walker’s bedroom was the one at the end of the hall; it had double doors instead of a measly single one, and it looked slightly more lived in than the guest rooms. So I coincidentally-on-purpose picked a room at the far end of the hall. Maybe it was because I was still a little hurt he’d left me alone at the restaurant. Maybe it was because I didn’t trust myself not to stumble into his bedroom one night if I roomed any closer. But either way, keeping as much distance as possible between Walker Prince and me seemed like a smart call.

  Shaking my head at the insanity of this situation, I dug into the suitcase and grabbed out a tank top and a pair of comfy shorts. After slipping out of my dress and into my PJs, I headed back downstairs.

  Bruno—Walker’s Great Dane—padded into the living room as I curled up on the couch with a box of takeout sushi. He was a quiet thing, stoic almost. He behaved more like a well-behaved little lord of the house than an animal. When I reached down to scratch between his ears, his tail gave a tiny wiggle back and forth before he went to eat his own food.

  I sighed. Well, I can’t say this isn’t what I signed up for.

  * * *

  One Week Later

  “Holy damn, girl! I need to marry a rich man. Look at all this space.”

  I laughed, taking another sip of French-pressed coffee. I’d invited Alex over, figuring since I was finally moved into the house properly, it was time to let him see the—fake—life of luxury his best friend was now living. Walker had told me I was free to have anyone over, telling me to make sure they didn’t ‘get any fingerprints on the sculptures,’ before heading out the door. I’d rolled my eyes at the time, calling out a halfhearted agreement, but I didn’t stop Alex from sliding a delicate finger over one of the sculptures in question. Art was meant to be appreciated and consumed after all—through all the senses.

  Except, perhaps, taste. Few pieces needed to be consumed, literally.

  As I’d quickly discovered, Walker spent most of his days and evenings at work. Barely a week into being married, and that had become painfully apparent. I didn’t complain about it though. The house was lonely, but it was far from empty, and I had plenty of things to keep me busy. I could paint, take Bruno out for long walks in the parks, or binge-watch shows on the giant TV in the living room.

&
nbsp; I got to know the neighbors a little—something Walker apparently hadn’t done the entire time he’d lived there. An older woman with a chihuahua lived next door, and her dog seemed to have a bit of a crush on Bruno. A young polyamorous couple (triple?) live across the street from us. Old money heirs, apparently, with nothing better to do than go to art galleries and pop up clubs.

  Mostly, however, I painted. I had so much time to paint. Hours upon hours, uninterrupted by work or the noise of a bustling, over-populated city. I could start oils and leave them to dry, move to acrylics, practice with watercolors. I left my studio occasionally for food, water, and playtime with Bruno—if the lethargic bop of a ball across the marble flooring could be called playtime.

  Alex looked over at me where I sat, his green eyes shining mischievously, brown hair slicked back in a brand of pomade he said a ‘boyfriend’ of his bought him. I’d never met this alleged boyfriend, and I was pretty sure Alex just wanted someone to pin his unhealthy addiction to hair products on.

  “Seriously. I’m extremely upset your lover boy is apparently too straight to make this little arrangement a threesome,” he continued. “I still can’t believe all of this is a thing.”

  I couldn’t believe it either, honestly. I couldn’t believe I went from an eviction to a luxury mansion in the heart of New York City. I couldn’t believe I was living in a place that was essentially a small art gallery with the number of pieces Walker had collected over the years. I couldn’t believe, despite having gotten myself unpacked and settled in within a day of our wedding, that I not only had my own room, but my own art studio, too.

  That was the absolute best part. The studio. The door always stayed shut, because I was too nervous to let Walker see any of my pieces before they were done, but the entire room was quickly filled with painting after painting, small sketches and studies, and the occasional warm-up doodle.