12
Roman
Past
MADE OF DREAMS
I glance down at her and realise I should slow my steps. Kennedy looks a little flushed, maybe from trying to keep up with me. She tips her chin, her deep brown eyes dancing with mischief, and I realise belatedly that she’d said something.
Fucking idiot. You’re not supposed to be towing her down a hotel hallway, even if you are desperate to get between her legs. Not without listening to her, at least. But desperate is how I feel.
“Sorry. I was miles away,” I offer up.
“No, I get it.” She quirks a brow. “You were just mentally preparing yourself for the horrors of the matrimonial bed.”
“What?” This sounds more laugh than word, my amusement deepening as I turn to face her because she looks like she’d happily swallow her tongue.
“Nothing.” She turns so sharply that her ponytail flicks over her shoulder, curling over it in the shape of a question mark. “Just . . just ignore . . . ignorethatIsaidthat.”
“How can I when I don’t even know what you said?”
“Oh, good.” Her shoulders begin to relax from the vicinity of her ears.
“Well, everything, but when you said you’re a horror in bed.” Her eyes drop, and I realise I’m touching her hair. “And now I’m thinking up all kinds of things.”
“That’s not what I said. It was almost literal, I mean, literary. My God, shut up,” she adds in a mumble, pressing her hand to her head as though talking to herself. “It was a joke.” Her eyes rise to mine, full of resolve. “But you’re kind of the wrong gender and maybe twenty years too young.”
“To get it?” I know I’m gettin’ it.
“Exactly.” She smiles, but it’s brief. “I’m not horror, I don’t think. I mean, I don’t have any weird tastes or anything.”
Jesus, this girl. I wrap my arms around her to prevent her from seeing my expression. So she doesn’t think I’m laughing at her earnest little face.
Fucking. Adorable.
“Maybe I’m the one with the weird tastes.” My voice is a low rumble, the sound echoed by the tremor that courses through her. “Did you think about that?”
“I hadn’t, but I am now.”
With a chuckle, I tighten my arms around her. “Maybe we should go in for the whole show and not tell?” She nods, and I take her hand again as we resume walking.
“I hope you aren’t marrying me for my money.”
“Have you got any?” I glance down at her, all adorable and quirky. Adorably quirky?
“Nope,” she replies with a stuttering laugh. “I have negative money. At least, I will after this trip.”
“Good thing I’m loaded, then.” I’m no billionaire, not quite. But I do all right.
“I’ve bagged me a rich man? Wow, I’ll make my mom so proud.” She turns her head, avoiding my gaze.
“She’ll love me.” I give her hands a reassuring squeeze.
“No doubt about it.” But by the tone of her answer, the prospect doesn’t seem very appealing to her. She swings her bouquet upwards, burying her nose in the blooms almost as though to quash the thought. Though bouquet might be a bit of a stretch, despite Irena, the wedding chapel’s package coordinator’s earlier assurances that the flowers alone were worth the extra two hundred bucks to upgrade. The Forever and Always package was basically a half dozen less than impressive roses in a sea of what I was earlier informed is baby’s breath—which seems like the equivalent of expensive flower air—and a length of powder blue ribbon that was the something blue part of the package.
Something old. Something new. Something borrowed. Something blue.
The wilted flowers were new-ish looking. The ribbon was blue. Something called a unity candle became our borrowed, and another charge added to the bill. You don’t want to know what Irena suggested for old. Not that it matters because I had my own plans there. The ring I’d slipped over Kennedy’s finger during the ceremony was the one I’d pulled from own hand. It had once belonged to my grandfather.
“Are you admiring my wedding bouquet?” Over the cream-coloured roses, Kennedy’s dark-lashed gaze catches mine. Her shoulders shimmy very slightly, and I find myself oddly pleased to realise she’s trying not to laugh. Look at me, learning my new wife’s tells as we walk the long hallway of our hotel, done with The Tacky Little Chapel, or whatever the hell that place was called.
I glance at the room numbers as we pass. 9452. 9453. Nearly there.
“How’d you know what floor my room was on?” I ask, thinking how, as I’d swiped the key card in the elevator, Kennedy had entered the number.
“I was in the elevator with you yesterday.”
My feet slow to a stop as I turn to face her again. “Nah. I’d have remembered.” I’d have remembered because I literally lost my breath when I’d first spotted her yesterday. She was at the pool, wearing oversized sunglasses and a one-piece swimsuit. She looked like a fifties starlet in a sea of string bikini co-eds. But I can’t tell her that now without sounding like I’m selling her a line. “How could I not have noticed you?”