Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. Smart girl.
“I’m not getting married in my pajamas. If you think I’m going to stand up with you at an altar looking like this, then you’ve lost your goddamned mind.”
Without bothering to respond, I reach behind me and pull a dress bag out of the back seat then dump the whole thing on her lap. It might be a little wrinkled from the drive, but nothing that should embarrass her. It wasn’t a joke when I told her I’d thought of everything.
I’ve probably spent too much time thinking through this.
Suddenly sobering, I force myself to remember I’ve had to literally buy her attention. Just like every other girl who has ever been in my life. Zaya is doing this for money, nothing else.
“Next time you run your mouth, remember why you’re doing this.” I keep my voice cold and remote, as if doesn’t matter to me at all what she decides to do. “You want to keep Zion out of prison and your grandfather eating something other than dog food. Play along, or I’ll take back all my toys and find someone who will actually appreciate them.”
She plays at the zipper of the dress bag, obviously resisting the urge to look at the dress inside. Her lips thin, and I almost see the start of what looks like tears in those overly large eyes.
Maybe both of us need the reminder.
Zaya pulls herself together and shoves open her door before the car has even rolled to a complete stop. “Let’s get this over with.”
Zaya makes a beautiful bride. Even when she is only wearing a white silk dress that I picked up at the last minute and her face bare of makeup. Bridezillas who spend months stressing over their perfect day could eat their hearts out.
I open my mouth to say that, but then shut it again.
If she were actually my fiancée, then I might pay her the compliment, like the type who actually means it when they say as long as we both shall live at the altar. But it would just be a waste of time on the girl I bought and paid for.
That isn’t how we talk to each other, even when the words taste like poison on the tip of my tongue just begging to be spat out. Everything about this is temporary, no matter how pretty it looks from the outside.
But I could still see myself wanting her forever.
Which makes absolutely no fucking sense.
Iain is already waiting at the altar with a bored expression on his face. He has on the sport coat I begged him to wear, with board shorts on bottom and no shirt underneath. The only reason he agreed to come out here was because the surf is breaking in bombs along the north coast and he can get in a few rides before going back to Deception.
Despite his apparent lack of interest in the proceedings, I chose Iain for the specific reason that he won’t try to talk me out of any of this. He has always been an any means to end type of guy, which is probably why we get along so well.
He won’t stand in my way, even when I might be self-destructing.
Zaya stands up next to me at a makeshift altar and is shaking like a leaf. An archway has been set up in an open area at the center of the vineyard. Honeysuckle hangs down from it to sweeten the air. It might as well be swamp gas for all that she seems to notice.
Neither of us are enjoying this.
It was probably a bad idea for me to try and make this nice. The pretty facade just serves as a reminder that there isn’t any substance under all this fanfare.
The ceremony itself is brief and anticlimactic. The justice of the peace that I paid double to get out here at the last minute recites the same speech he has probably used a thousand times before.
When it’s time to exchange rings, Zaya’s mouth falls open when I shove a rock the size of a goose egg on her finger. The thing is older than I am, some family relic that can be traced back over several generations of Cortland wives. It seemed like a better idea to whip out some old artifact than to pick out something new that I would just want to return when this is all over.
Even Iain seems surprised when he sees it, eyebrows raised as I shove the thing on Zaya’s finger. He won’t say anything, not about this or anything else, but that doesn’t mean he approves. Iain lives in a house made of spun glass, so he isn’t about to go around throwing stones.
I didn’t have the ring sized, and she has to squeeze her hand into a fist to keep it from slipping down to her knuckle.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, voice barely audible.
As if it matters.
But from the looks on their faces, I wonder if I might have made a mistake. Maybe I should have grabbed some gaudy thing from the jewelry store at the mall. I assumed it would be too much to pick out a ring specifically for her, but handing over a family heirloom might be sending a message I didn’t necessarily intend.
Too late now.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the justice intones softly, as if any part of this charade is worthy of gravity.
Both of us freeze like we’ve been splashed with frigidly cold water and then dropped unceremoniously in Siberia.
Zaya and I don’t kiss. Ever.
I don’t kiss anyone.
It started as an unspoken rule that grew into something infamous and is now a matter of gospel. Girls have placed bets in the past over whether they could get me to stick my tongue down their throats. Never happened.
That show at the Founder’s Ball
