He nods with hesitation and stands. “Let me know if you change your mind. I can talk to Nick.” He gives a worried-looking Jemma a kiss on the cheek before he leaves the room.
“Sorry about that,” I say to her.
“Nonsense. I hope you don’t mind that I called him. I didn’t know what was going on and I wasn’t sure if I should call Nick instead, but I didn’t want to ruin him seeing you in your dress for the first time. But maybe I should have called him instead of Ollie, I—”
“It’s fine.” I squeeze her hand. “You did the right thing. Thank you.”
“Okay, yeah. Sorry, I ramble when I’m nervous.”
I chuckle. “Apparently I have panic attacks. I’ll trade you.”
We both laugh and get to work putting me back together. Hopefully, this isn’t an omen of what to expect from this marriage, fake or not.
Sixteen
Nick
I pace through the living room. The officiant and photographer sit on the couch, obviously not knowing what to do.
What the hell is going on up there?
One second I’m waiting for my bride to show up, and the next, Jemma is yelling with panic in her voice for Ollie to come help.
Did Mazzy have another Meniere’s episode? Did she fall and bump her head? The doctor in me wants to race up the stairs, but I don’t know for sure if there’s a medical emergency. Maybe Mazzy confessed to Jemma that this marriage isn’t real, and Jemma wanted to cuss him out for not telling her.
Whatever it is, the seconds seem to tick by slower and slower until they each feel like an hour. This damn bow tie is choking me, and I dig my finger between my shirt and my neck, searching for relief. This whole navy tuxedo I dug out of my closet from a black-tie event I went to for the hospital last year feels stifling and I can’t wait to strip it off.
I glance at my watch, giving Ollie thirty seconds before I’m going up there.
But he returns a few seconds later. “Hey.”
I stomp over to him. “What the hell is going on? Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine. They’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“What do you mean everything is fine? What the hell happened up there?”
He smirks. “Sorry, doctor-patient privilege.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit.”
“It’s true. If your wife wants to tell you after the ceremony, she can.”
I ignore his jab and roll my eyes, pulling on the hem of my tuxedo jacket. “Fine, let’s just get this over with.”
“It’s not too late to call his off,” he says in a low voice, glancing over my shoulder at where the officiant and photographer wait.
“I already told you why I’m doing this.” I walk back to the other side of the room to wait for Mazzy.
Ollie follows and takes his place to my left.
“Should be ready to go any minute,” I tell the officiant, and he nods.
A few minutes later, Jemma appears with a goofy smile, as though she’s so excited for me she might burst like a confetti bomb. I almost feel bad for lying to her.
There isn’t any music to announce Mazzy’s arrival, but her shoes click as she makes her way down the hardwood stairs. I shift in my spot, needing to expel some of the nervous energy buzzing through me. It’s hard to believe I’m doing this, but I need to keep the end goal in mind—saving my job.
When Mazzy appears in the doorway of the living room, I nearly choke on my tongue. She looks… phenomenal. Stunning. Like a bride. Like my bride.
Her dress fits her perfectly and it isn’t overdone, nor is her hair or her makeup. It’s everything I would appreciate if this were real. But as she steps toward me with a nervous smile, it becomes more difficult to remember that this is, in fact, fake. Because I can’t pull my gaze away from hers and our past runs like a film reel through my mind—until we reach the point of that dreadful night a decade ago when the film was ripped from the projector.
I blink rapidly and give my head a shake, pulling myself out of whatever weird state I was lost in. She stops in front of me and smiles at the officiant. The photographer’s shutter clicks.
“Hi,” Mazzy says in a soft voice.
“Hey, you look beautiful.” I say it not because it’s true but because it’s something a groom would say to his bride.
“You look very handsome.”
We both turn our attention to the officiant.
“Are we ready to get started?” he asks.
“I think we’re good,” I say.
“You can hold hands,” he says, as though we’re not because he hasn’t yet given us approval.
To keep in character, I take Mazzy’s hands. Both of ours are clammy, likely from nerves, but that’s not what I focus on. What’s really got my attention is the warm sensation that travels up my arms from where our skin touches. It’s unexpected and it doesn’t make me want to crawl out of my skin.
I’m too perplexed to pay much attention to the ceremony, but I must smile and nod and respond in all the right ways because eventually I hear him tell us, “You may kiss the bride.”
Shit. I didn’t think about this part. Whatever. I peck my mom and my grandma whenever I see them, which admittedly isn’t much these days. I can treat Mazzy the same way.
I pull her into me and lean down to place my lips on hers. God, she smells good. My lips touch hers and I pull away, but something draws me back in again. I’m going blame it on my dick since he’s flexing to get in on the action.
Our lips meet again and this time I increase the pressure. When a small sigh leaves her throat, suddenly my dick is jumping again and my tongue is coasting across the seam of her lips. She opens for me and wraps her arms around my neck. Our tongues touch and it’s as if someone plugged my dick into an electrical socket. I have a full-on erection pressing against the inside of my pants. She pushes her nails into the back of my hair and moans a little when I nip her bottom lip.
The sound of throats clearing beside us makes us back away from each other. Her face is beet-red when she glances at the officiant, who looks as embarrassed as she does. Thank God my tuxedo jacket covers my crotch. Otherwise this PG wedding would be veering close to MA-rated territory.
“Sorry, guess we got carried away.”
The click of a shudder reminds me that all of that was likely preserved for posterity. Perfect.
After everyone’s offered their congratulations, the photographer has us pose in a few different groupings—Mazzy and me, the two of us with Ollie and Jemma, just the girls, just us guys, some of each of us alone. When I’m standing off to the side beside Mazzy—she insisted the photographer get some pictures of Ollie and Jemma alone—I take a moment to glance at my ring.
Mazzy brought both our wedding bands, and I feel like a schmuck that I didn’t think to go pick a ring out for her myself. I might not have her money, but I can certainly afford a ring she wouldn’t be embarrassed of.
“I tried to pick something you wouldn’t mind wearing. How’d I do?” she asks in a quiet voice. “It’s Damascus steel and gold.”
I look at the band again—it’s mostly black with some lines of marbled dark silver running through it, then a thin line of gold just off center. It’s exactly what I’d choose for myself.
“It’s perfect. Good job.” I clear my throat. I glance at her hand and see that she’s chosen a simple band with diamonds, alternating between circular then more of a diamond shape. It’s elegant, like her.
“Glad I still know you well enough to be able to pick the right ring.”
Suddenly my bow tie is strangling me again. This whole thing is going way too smoothly.
Seventeen
Mazzy
After the photographer is done taking our pictures and assuring me she’ll rush some proofs over tomorrow morning, the four of us head into the dining room to eat a meal prepared by the private chef I hired. I’m happy for the excuse to put some distance between Nick and myself.
Having to cozy
up to him for pictures and hold his hand and look into his eyes for the duration of the ceremony was pure torture. I’d rather get a Brazilian.
The fact is, I can’t be this close to Nick without wishing I could go back in time and redo our past. He wasn’t just someone I loved. He was my best friend. I miss laughing with him and confiding in him. Hell, I miss having someone I can let my guard down with and just be myself around without having to worry about it leaking to the press.
What I don’t miss is the trench that formed in my heart after our falling out, or the devastation of losing him. And I need to remember those feelings, so I don’t romanticize what this is between us and end up back there again in six months.
The meal—salmon with risotto—is placed in front of us by the chef when Ollie raises the glass of wine the server poured us all. His gaze darts between us, probing. “To the happy couple.”
“Thank you.” I raise my glass and clink it with everyone else’s.
But before the glass hits my lips, Nick’s hand covers the top. “Is it okay for you to have that?”
I’m confused for a moment, unsure what he’s getting at.
“Oh, shit.” Ollie fumbles and sets down his glass. “I’m sorry, Mazzy, I didn’t realize you were in recovery.”
“I assumed she was pregnant,” Jemma says.
A laugh escapes me. Releasing the pent-up nerves feels good, so I laugh a little longer than is probably necessary. “I’m not an alcoholic. I have Meniere’s disease.”
“Oh.” The relief on Ollie’s face makes me laugh again.
“That’s not pregnant, right?” Jemma asks Ollie. “What’s that?”
Ollie explains it to his fiancée.
A burst of warmth explodes in my chest over Nick’s concern. Alcohol isn’t off-limits per se, but both that and caffeine might contribute to episodes. I’ve never found that to be true for myself though.
To Nick, I say, “It’s okay. I don’t find that there’s any correlation for me, and I don’t plan on having any more than this glass.”
He nods gruffly and picks up his cutlery, digging into his meal.
The warmth from earlier crystallizes into a frost inside my chest. He’s a doctor. It’s not like he read up on the disease because he cares about me or something. Get a grip, Maz.
“That must be really hard to deal with.” Jemma looks across the table at me with concern.
I shrug. “It’s not pleasant, but only when I’m having an attack. There are certainly worse things.”
“Well, that seems like a great attitude to have,” Ollie says. “Don’t you think, Nick?”
Nick looks up from his meal as if he were totally tuned out and has no idea what we’re discussing. “Yeah.”
“So tell me all about when you were kids. Mazzy tells me you guys were, like, best friends growing up.” Jemma’s chin rests on her hand as she stares at Nick.
“Oh, she did?” He glances over, probably wondering what else I told her.
I nod, stepping in to save him. “Yep, and I told her how we ran into each other unexpectedly and how we still felt the same for one another. We knew this was our time and we had to seize it before we missed our chance again.”
“That’s a great story,” he says, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
“It really is,” Jemma says, missing Nick’s real meaning. “So what was it like growing up together? Did you used to tug on her ponytails?”
“Yeah, Nick. Tell us all about it.” Ollie grins around a mouthful of food.
Nick locks gazes with him and is silent for a minute. “Well, this one here was mostly a pain in my ass until high school.”
“That’s such a lie,” I say.
“Are you kidding me? You followed me around everywhere.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s because I didn’t want to be stuck with our parents. It was so boring, watching them sipping drinks and making polite conversation. And your brother…”
Keith is the last person I should be bringing up.
“Oh, you have a brother?” Jemma straightens in her chair, brow furrowed. “I’ve never heard you mention him.”
Nick says, “He’s two years younger than me. The same age as Mazzy. We’re not close.”
Jemma frowns and looks as if she might ask another question, but Ollie pops in and steers the conversation in another direction. “Do you like baseball, Mazzy? Jemma’s brother works for the Sox.”
I take the bait and run with it, moving the conversation as far from Keith as I can get it. Nick’s quiet through the rest of dinner, but I’ve been to enough charitable events to master the art of conversation, so I don’t think Jemma even notices.
An hour later, Ollie stands from his chair and sets down his napkin. “Well, why don’t we give these newlyweds some privacy?” He helps Jemma pull out her chair.
She looks at us with a grin. “Oh right. Wedding night.” Those googly eyes of hers show up once more.
Nick and I follow them to the front door to say our goodbyes.
“Thanks again for all your help today,” Nick says.
“Mazzy, it was wonderful meeting you. We’ll have to hang out so we can get to know each other better.” She hugs me.
“That would be great.” And I mean it. I like Jemma. She’s a sweet girl, and though she’s a little younger than I am, I don’t feel the age difference.
“You should come to one of our wine nights!” I tilt my head, and she explains further. “Me and two of my friends get together and drink wine then whine about stuff. You’d like them.”
I nod. “Count me in.”
“Perfect.” She gives Nick a hug while I do the same with Ollie.
Then they’re gone and the door is closed, leaving me with my new husband who feels more like a stranger. Not because I don’t know who he is at the core of him, but because I don’t know how to act like I don’t.
Eighteen
Nick
I face Mazzy, eyes narrowed. “Why’d you do that?”
“Do what?” Her forehead wrinkles.
“Tell Jemma you’d go to her wine night.”
“Why wouldn’t I? She seems nice.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t real.” I motion between us. “You don’t have to go winding yourself into my life. This’ll all be done and over within six months and you’ll never see her again.”
From the red blotches that appear on the pale skin of her neck, it’s clear I’ve pissed her off. “Well I like Jemma, and I didn’t want to turn her invitation down and make her feel bad. Don’t worry, I won’t let her get too close.”
“Make sure you don’t.”
“I’m tired.” She stomps past me toward the stairs, then bends over abruptly and takes off her pumps. Holding them in one hand, she stomps back to me, eyes on fire.
That damned slit in her dress allows her shapely left leg to show as she comes toward me. Dinner was hell since I sat on her left side and the fabric had fallen to the side, leaving most of her thigh exposed. Her legs are one feature I love most.
“I realize this isn’t a love match and we’re each doing this for our own reasons, but you might want to work a little harder at not being such a jerk to me if you want to make people at your work think we’re in love. You can’t be pissed off by every single thing that comes out of my mouth if you want people to believe we’re happy.”
The reminder of why she’s doing this—money—makes me want to spout off, but she’s right. I have to try a lot harder not to be an asshole so the people at the hospital believe I’m a happily married man.
So I suck back the sour taste in my mouth and tell her what she wants to hear. “You’re right. I apologize. I’ll try harder to forget the past and move forward with you.”
All the fight leaves her body. Her shoulders slump and her fist relaxes. “Good, great.”
“There is one thing we didn’t discuss that we probably should.” I step forward and regret it when the scent of her perfume reaches my nostrils. “Consummation of
the marriage.”
Her mouth drops open and her eyes flare, but I can’t tell if it’s in arousal or shock. “You want to… you mean…”
I shrug as though I could take it or leave it, but in reality my dick has been preoccupied with trying to slide between her thighs since that kiss during the ceremony. I don’t think it’s a good idea. It’ll only complicate things, but I don’t know what she needs. “That’s not what I’m saying, but I don’t know if you need to present the bloody sheets to the town as proof or what.”
She crosses her arms. “Well, we’d have to time travel back in time if you’re looking for bloody sheets from me.” She gives me a saccharine smile.
The mention of her sleeping with someone else makes my jaw tick. “I’m aware.”
“This being legally binding is enough for me. We don’t have to sleep together.”
“Well, thank God for small favors, huh?” I loosen the bow tie around my neck. Once again, it’s like a set of hands trying to squeeze the life out of me.
When I have trouble, Mazzy sets down her shoes and steps forward. “Here, let me.”
She messes with the bow tie for a minute. Once it’s undone, her gaze moves up from my neck to lock with mine. We stay like that for a minute, breathing the same air.
The physical pull I always felt around her is still present, though my head reminds me how badly she hurt me. That keeps me from planting my lips on hers to taste her again. The kiss we shared earlier and the way her body felt pressed up against me linger in my mind.
I clear my throat and step back. “Ollie wouldn’t tell me what happened upstairs earlier. Care to explain?”
Her gaze darts to the side. She clearly, she doesn’t want to tell me either.
“What happened?” I press. I don’t know if it’s because I want to make sure everything is medically okay with her or whether I hate the idea of her sharing a secret with Ollie. Probably both.
She swallows hard. “I had a panic attack. It wasn’t too bad though. It passed fairly quickly.”
Don't Mind If I Do : A Fake Marriage Romantic Comedy Page 8
