by Roxy Reid
I’ve heard that sound before.
My heart beats like a kid at Christmas as I quietly get out bed and step out onto my moonlit balcony.
Joshua is standing in the street below, broad and strong and beautiful and dear. He’s a man wrapped in starlight, waiting for me to come to him, and I want to freeze this moment so I never forget.
He smiles as soon as he sees me, and my heart melts. It utterly melts.
“Joshua, what are you doing here?” I call, my voice soft so as not to wake anyone.
“I couldn’t sleep without you,” he says.
“Well, there’s no room for you here,” I say.
“Then come down and run away with me,” he jokes.
I bite my lip. It’s ridiculous. I’m supposed to be here at the apartment getting ready in seven hours. Leaving will mess up Jax’s entire schedule.
Plus, Joshua and I will have the rest of our lives together. It is completely, utterly ridiculous to throw a carefully orchestrated public event into a tizzy just because Joshua and I are sappy, dramatic, lovestruck fools.
On the other hand, it’s worked pretty well for us before.
“Come on, Sienna Bridges,” Joshua coaxes. “Come down from that balcony and let me love you until neither of us can think straight.”
You know what? What the hell. Brittney’s right. It’s my party, and I know exactly where I want to be tonight.
I go inside, and I’m so giddy, I almost forget to leave a note on the kitchen counter telling the others where I’ve gone. I don’t bother to get dressed, I just throw a jacket on over the giant wedding-themed t-shirt I’m sleeping in. I grab my wallet, my keys, and my phone, and slip out the front door.
I realize as soon as the door shuts I’m still barefoot, but I don’t care.
I run down the grass to Joshua, who’s standing under the streetlight, watching me like he’s the happiest man in the world. And I suddenly I get a glimpse of what he’s going to look like when I’m walking down the aisle to him tomorrow.
Well, technically today.
Joshua greets me with a kiss that wakes me up and shoots tingles down my spine. I’m definitely not falling asleep now. His hands slip under my jacket, pulling me in close against him. His jeans clad leg presses between my bare ones, and I shiver, feeling deliciously exposed, an echo of our first time.
He breaks away to look down at what I’m wearing. Or more precisely, what I’m not wearing.
“Shit,” Joshua says. “You’re not wearing pants. Or a bra.” He glances down, “Or shoes.”
I can tell when he notices what’s written on the t-shirt, because his eyes narrow.
I married Joshua King and all I got was this f***cking t-shirt.
“I’m going to kill Brittney.”
I laugh.
Without warning, he scoops me up, like an old-timey hero carrying his bride over the threshold. I wrap my arms around his neck on reflex.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Taking you to the car. And then home. Where I will strip that shirt off your body and pin you to our bed and drive you wild until you’re begging for me. And then I’m going to make you list all of the things you’re getting out of this marriage.”
Honestly, that sounds amazing, especially because I know how much fun it will be when Joshua eventually cracks and lets me drive him wild in return. I’m already wet just from that bossy tone in his voice. But it’s the last night before we get married, and I don’t feel like teasing him.
I feel like loving him with my heart wide open.
I take his face in my hands, and he stops in his tracks.
“I know exactly what I’m getting out of this marriage. You,” I kiss Joshua with everything I have, and without an ounce of hesitation, he kisses me right back.
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Fake Fiancé Agreement
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Also by Roxy Reid
FAKE FIANCÉ AGREEMENT
I’m Bethany’s boss.
I should have known better…
But she’s the sharpest, hottest woman I’ve ever known.
My jealous ex-wife is threatening to take my kid away.
I’ll do anything to keep my daughter.
Even pretend to be engaged.
I accidentally blurt out that Bethany is my fiancée.
Not my smartest move I’ll admit.
But she’s agreed to go along with it.
Can a fake engagement lead to real love?
The clock is ticking…
Soon we’ll be forced to choose - marry or part forever.
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