Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  “You have one hour,” he seethes, his voice like rough sand against my skin. We have a least three hours before the wedding is supposed to start, so it looks like somebody can’t wait to be rid of me. Fine.

  I will not feel his words. I am untouchable. I am invincible.

  “I’ll be ready, when I’m ready,” I counter, tightening the belt of my robe tighter so I can move my hands to my hips.

  I’m a confident woman who’s in charge of my own destiny, or at least, thanks to a few Beyonce videos, I can power pose like one. Fake it till you make it, girl.

  He tries to pulverize my Beyonce pose with a supercharged Crawford death glare. My muscles lock against the force of it. He runs a frustrated hand across the back of his neck and growls something low in his throat—or maybe it’s just an extended grunt.

  Just as I’m about to tell him to go growl-grunt at somebody else, “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel blasts behind me through the bathroom door. John Cusack holding the boombox above his head flashes in my mind. I freaking love that movie.

  Nick, not so much.

  We glance to the door and seethe a “fucking Nick” under our breaths. Then our gazes crash back to each other. Something shifts in the air. I don’t know if it’s the song, or what, but I find myself having to grip my anger, feeling it slip away.

  “You should go…” I grit out while motioning to the boombox perpetrator on the other side of the door. “Your psycho friend obviously needs you.”

  Peter Gabriel keeps singing.

  Another song freaking ruined.

  Ben’s jaw ticks, and then he spears the door with a look so vicious I’m surprised I don’t hear the solid thud of Nick dropping dead on the other side.

  When his gaze again locks with mine, I’m pushed back a step by the storm of emotions in his eyes. My hand goes to the folds of my robe like that will somehow protect me from whatever this is.

  His chin dips. His heavy brows raise, and he holds up his pointer finger. His magic finger that’s summoned more orgasms than should be humanly possible and says, “One hour.”

  Ghost memories of us flicker in my mind.

  All of them piss me off.

  “Or what? You gonna call off the wedding? Kick me out of the house? Be my guest, big guy.”

  His face darkens.

  He rolls his white teeth over his bottom lip, then exhales and runs an exasperated hand over his mouth and down his beard, giving me a look that I’ve never seen before. But just to make sure, I flip through my file of Ben looks. Nope. This one’s new. And judging by the popping veins in his hands and forearms, it’s not good.

  This is an alert of the Emergency Broadcast System: If you’re in a bathroom with Benjamin Crawford, open the door, kick Nick in the balls, and run to the nearest shelter. This is not a test.

  My feet don’t budge as he stalks to me, closing the distance between us in one deadly stride. My pulse jumps to my throat as my back pushes against the door, the vibration of Peter Gabriel’s voice tingles its way through the thick fluff of the robe. A robe that felt like protection before now feels hot and stifling.

  My neck tilts back to hold his eyes. As much as I hate it, I know that I could spend forever studying Ben’s face and he’d always take my breath away.

  His rough hand lands on the side of my neck, his thumb tilting my chin farther back. I’m sure he can feel the quick tick of my pulse in my throat. My breath catches as his eyes search mine. Whatever he’s looking for I hope he finds it soon because my body thinks this is something that it’s not.

  He bends down, his sinful mouth hovers over mine, and I have to bite my lip to keep from kissing him.

  “We’re not done,” he states in a hoarse whisper, his brown eyes drilling into mine. “Say it,” he orders. His lips brush lightly against mine, sending a shiver of desire through me. His thumb runs along my jaws, coaxing my submission. “Say it, babe.”

  I’ll never be done.

  “We’re not done,” I whisper, my eyes drifting shut, my hands going to his waist. My body hums in anticipation of my reward or my punishment.

  He exhales a quick puff of breath, and then his lips crash against mine. His tongue pushes into my mouth. He tastes like Juicy Fruit and root beer. I open for him and push up onto my tiptoes so we can deepen the kiss, my tongue seeking the sweetness of his.

  He’s a sweet poison, like arsenic, but I don’t care. If I’m going to die, this is how I want to go.

  I melt into him as his fingers move from my neck to tangle in my wet hair. His other hand seizes my waist and pulls me closer. I grasp his shirt, needing him closer, hating the bulkiness of this robe.

  A low moan sounds from the back of his throat as our kiss turns urgent, like two people who want to stretch borrowed time into eternity.

  The song ends.

  And our kiss tapers off.

  His forehead presses against mine. Our heavy breaths mingle for a few heartbeats before he steps back. I reluctantly drop my hands from his waist. He casually adjusts his arousal beneath his jeans. His gaze holds mine, his neck flushed.

  He takes in a deep breath, moves me to the side of the door and adjusts my robe, making sure I’m covered, and tightens the belt. Then his lips are back on mine in a soft kiss.

  Then he’s gone.

  * * *

  Ben’s hour deadline comes and goes. And no Ben. Which is good. I think.

  What’s not good? Betsy popping her silver head in the room and saying the five words that cause my Southwest scramble to threaten to make a reappearance:

  “The guests are arriving, dear.”

  The guests are arriving.

  In what feels like a lifetime ago, those same words were spoken to me as I stood in front of a full-length mirror in my avalanche of tulle, hating the dress but loving the look in my eyes. Rachel stood behind me in her strapless blush gown that I wished I were wearing, her deep-set brown eyes holding mine in the mirror as she squeezed my shoulders.

  “Too late to turn back now,” she teased, her wide smile brimming with excitement. I looked up at her over my shoulder, my smile matching hers. It was just her and me in a room full of busy bridesmaids and stylists.

  My hand reached up and covered hers on my shoulder.

  At my touch, our colliding excitement overflowed.

  And we squealed. And hopped.

  We squealed-hopped like fucking teenagers.

  Mara and I do not squeal-hop.

  Instead, the expression she sees on my face when Betsy drops her guest bomb, prompts her to whisper, “You say the safeword, girl, and we’re outta here.”

  Yes, we had a safeword, which when spoken, she assured me will have us outta here in under five minutes.

  It makes me feel better knowing someone is on my side, even though it hurts that that someone isn’t Derek. I’ve added him to the list of things I won’t be thinking about today. Today I’m going to focus on breathing in and out.

  In and out.

  I catch Jacob’s gaze in the mirror as he gives my fairytale mermaid braid a tuck here and a pull there, releasing perfect wisps and romantic loose curls to frame my face. On any other day, it would take my breath away.

  I wonder if in a different dimension there’s a version of me sitting in this chair with butterflies in my stomach, looking at my fairytale hair and goddess-dewy makeup, bursting with excitement instead of dread.

  Sometimes I think we’re all living in some kind of Matrix-like simulation game with somebody else calling the shots.

  I mentally flip off whoever’s playing my life.

  Fucking gamers.

  “Mind if I take some snaps for my Instagram, chérie?” Jacob asks, his smooth Creole accent acting like a temporary salve to my churning stomach and frayed nerves. It doesn’t hurt that he reminds me of Jackson from Grey’s Anatomy.

  “He has millions of followers,” Mara chimes in with a smile that says I should be excited. She turns my chair to face her—yes, Voodoo Jacob brought his own swive
l chair—and puts the finishing touches on my already flawless makeup.

  Not that I care that my makeup is freaking perfect. Not that I hope Ben will see me in all my goddess glory and regret not trying to turn this nothing into something.

  “Okay,” I say with a smile that I can tell Mara knows is fake.

  “Just a few pics,” she says under her breath with a wink as she dusts my face with a highlighter that gives my porcelain skin an ethereal, pearly glow. I’m pretty sure it’s made from unicorn horns or some shit.

  Her eyes light with mischief as she steps back. “Then we’ll get you into your dress so you can say I quick I-do. Then we’re gonna get fucking wasted. Vegas-style, baby.”

  I have no idea what Vegas-style wasted consists of, but I want it. “Sounds good,” I sigh.

  Jacob chuckles while he makes a few braid adjustments. “Your man’s gonna be wanting you to himself tonight, ma petite.”

  “Not in this dimension,” I mumble under my breath, glancing down at the patch of bare skin where my loaner engagement ring sat.

  I blame the tightening of my throat on PMS. I told Jesse I’d move it to my right hand. It’s what I did for my wedding with Greg, moving it back to my ring finger after Greg slipped on my wedding band. He snapped his fingers and held out his hand with a grunt, so I placed the ring in his callused palm and off he went. Our lumberjack ring-bearer who apparently made our wedding bands, probably from some scrap metal lying around.

  Mara gives me a hang-in-there smile. And steps back as Jacob holds up his tricked-out Kim Kardashian iPhone with backlight.

  I hear the door open, and a familiar voice booms through the room. “You gotta talk some sense into your man, Blue.”

  Mara’s eyes flare as she steps back from the chair.

  I reluctantly turn to the voice, knowing nothing good ever comes from a conversation with Nick. Nothing.

  My eyes go wide when I see him stomping toward me in a Scottish kilt, complete with a waistcoat, tie and all the fixings, including a tartan sash-cape hanging over his shoulder held by a gold broach.

  “What are you wearing?” I can’t help the surprised laugh bubbling from my throat.

  It’s not that he doesn’t look good. Let’s face it, Nick is as hot as he is annoying. But did I expect him to strut in looking like the tattooed Prince of the Highlands?

  No, I did not.

  He ignores me. Presses a button on his phone and holds it toward me as it rings on speaker, his cheeks flushed.

  “Tell him he has to wear the kilt.” Him as in Ben.

  I shake my head and jerk back from the phone like it zapped me with an electric shock, right before a deep voice thunders through the room. “Where the fuck are my pants?!”

  Nick shoves the phone closer and gives me an imploring look.

  Like there’s a chance in hell I’m going to tell Benjamin freaking Crawford that he has to wear a kilt for our fake wedding. I shake my head, pushing Nick’s arm back. You’re on your own, Braveheart.

  We both startle when Ben’s voice vibrates the air around us. “Listen, you little shit. I’m not wearing a fucking kilt. You keep it up, and I’m going to feed it to you piece by fucking piece. You have three minutes to bring me my pants. Three minutes.”

  I can’t help the shiver that runs down my spine, remembering that phone voice.

  Nick’s shoulders slump as he turns the phone to face him. “Fine. But you’re gonna make my granny cry, bro. That’s my family tartan. My grandad wore—”

  “Two minutes.”

  The line goes dead. I stifle a laugh at Nick’s crestfallen expression as he stares at the phone.

  Here’s the thing: even though he’s a total pain in the ass, I sort of love my crayon-eating Diablo, and I don’t like to see that look on his face.

  “Sorry.” I shoot him a smile. “I think that’s sweet of you, though. Kilts are awesome,” I say, trying to soothe his hurt feelings.

  “Wish you would’ve told him that,” he mutters, pushing his glasses back in place with a heavy exhale.

  “He wouldn’t have listened.”

  “He would’ve listened to you,” he counters with a pout that tugs at my heartstrings.

  I blame PMS for that too.

  “I love a guy in a kilt,” Mara interjects.

  Nick’s somber eyes lighten as their gazes meet. His lip ticks up just a bit. Mara is the first to look away, a smile still lingering on her lips as she busies herself with organizing her makeup brushes.

  If things don’t work out with Ryan, Nick and Mara would be good together. Though, I’m pretty sure we’ll all be screwed if they ever join forces.

  “It’s a good look,” Jacob says, giving Nick a lingering once over, clearly impressed by what he sees.

  Nick nods emphatically. “I know, right?” He slips his phone into the leather-pouch-kilt thingy hanging in front. “Tried to tell him that. But did he listen? No.” He pulls out a thick piece of paper from his pouch and clears his throat. “Anyway…I need you to sign this.” He shoves a thick blue-and-pink swirly-patterned piece of paper at me.

  “What is it?” I take it warily.

  “The marriage license.”

  “The what?” Mara and I exclaim at the same time.

  “The marriage license,” he repeats dryly while trying to hand me a pen that I don’t move to take. “Hurry it up.” He glances to the door. “He’s probably on his way, and I like my face the way it is.”

  I hear Jacob mutter his agreement while taking a picture of the back of my braid. I’m sure he’s taking a few of Nick for his personal use.

  I search Nick’s face for the telltale twitch of his lip or crinkle of his mischievous eyes. When they don’t come, I swivel the chair back to the station and slowly unfold the “license,” expecting a repeat of the toilet paper tarantula incident. He thought that was fucking hilarious.

  It was not.

  Do you know what’s worse than reaching for the toilet paper and coming eye-to-eye with a giant furry tarantula that you don’t know is fake, and screaming because you can’t move since you’re still peeing, and then having Ben nearly break down the bathroom door, which you thankfully locked, yelling for you to open the fucking door, while you scramble to pull up your pants?

  Holding an official License of Marriage for your fake wedding.

  That’s what.

  “How did you do this?” I ask, feeling lightheaded, hoping this is just a joke. A time-consuming, stupid joke…

  I scan my personal information, saving the anger at seeing it there for another day, and move on to Ben. His middle name is Martin after his grandfather, and… he’s only twenty-seven! Not thirty-three like I estimated. But twenty-freaking-seven! Which, I’m pretty sure means I’m a cougar or something. Lovely.

  My gaze slides to Nick. “Well?”

  He straightens his spine and clears his throat. “As the official Solemnizer of this blessed union, if the situation warrants, I’m authorized to obtain the license on behalf of my love flock.” He holds out the pen. “Now, if you’ll please—”

  “How does the situation warrant, Nick?” I ask, feeling my ears and neck prickle with heat.

  Mara puts a calming hand on my shoulder because I’m sure I’m turning a beautiful shade of fuchsia.

  Nick’s gaze drops to his feet and back. “Ben’s currently fighting the good fight overseas, and you’re incarcerated.”

  “I’m what?!”

  Mara busts out laughing. I give her the evil eye Griselda taught me, which makes her laugh harder.

  “I’m sorry,” she struggles to get out before turning around, her shoulders shaking.

  Yeah, Mara and Nick would be great together.

  I swing my evil gaze back to Nick who puts his palms up in defense. “Just a few forged docs. No biggie. It’s all good.”

  All good?!

  “Why would you do this?” My voice raises. “Does Ben know?”

  “He signed it, didn’t he?” His gaze holds mine. �
�And he did it a hell of a lot quicker than you.” His brows pinch together, his chin dips. “Just saying.”

  My gaze slides back to the heavy paper, and sure enough, Benjamin Crawford is scrawled in sharp, masculine lines. My stomach flips at seeing his name. And I feel myself step into a surreal fog of shit that doesn’t make sense.

  Why would he sign it?

  Because it’s just a piece of phony paper. Because he probably signed it just to get rid of Nick. Because it’s only official if we file it.

  Which we won’t.

  Nick shoots a nervous glance at the door, reminding me that Ben might barge in any moment. The last thing I want to see right now is a pissed-off, pants-less Ben, so I grab the pen from his hand. And sign it. My signature is messy, especially compared to Ben’s, but it is what it is.

  “Maybe I should hold onto it…” I bring it to my lap.

  “Now, that’s my job, lass,” he says with a grin and a spot-on Scottish accent that has Jacob swooning. And maybe Mara, too.

  Fucking Nick.

  “You’re fired,” I mumble, wondering if it’s too early to get Vegas-style wasted.

  “Too late.” He puts a dramatic hand over his chest. “In my heart, I’ve already married you guys.”

  “You do remember none of this is real, right?”

  Nick answer my question with a wicked wink, scoops up the paper and pen in an eager swoop from my lap, then flashes me a Diablo look that sends a shiver up my neck.

  I just got played by the devil himself.

  He tucks the paper away and bends down, placing his hands on the chair arms on either side of me, his yellow-brown eyes boring into mine as his face moves inches away.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jacob going to town snapping pictures of us. Great.

  He smells like cloves and mint. “You look amazing, by the way.” He gives me a quick kiss on my nose. “Welcome to the family, Blue.” He grins, looks at me for a moment longer, then spins on his heels and struts to the door, his kilt swaying below his knees, his sash billowing behind him like a cape.

  Family. That one simple word slams against the gate of my mental fortress like a battering ram. I raise my sword and yell for the guards to prepare for battle. Do I do this dressed like Brienne of Tarth from Game of Thrones? I sure do.