Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Mom.
My mother is here.
My mother is HERE, in this underground cavern, at my mafia wedding, wearing a floral dress that's completely wrong for the occasion and smiling like this is the happiest day of her life.
How is she here? How did she—
My eyes snap to Devyn. He's watching me with that unreadable expression, but there's something in his eyes. Something that might be satisfaction.
He did this.
He flew my mother here from Oregon. Found her, contacted her, arranged everything, and didn't say a word.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
I keep walking, and now I can hear my mother's voice carrying over the music.
"That's my baby! Look at her! Oh, she's so beautiful. I knew it, I knew from the moment she told me about him. You can hear it in someone's voice, you know? When it's real love. I could just tell."
Real love. She thinks this is real love.
That's my mother. Rose-colored glasses permanently affixed.
I reach the platform.
Devyn is right there, and everything else fades.
Up close, I can see what I couldn't from the entrance. The slight tension in his jaw. The faint shadows under his eyes. He didn't sleep either. Or maybe he hasn't slept in days, handling whatever happened in New Jersey, and came straight here to marry a woman he barely knows.
His eyes meet mine, and for just a second, I see something flicker there.
Relief.
Then it's gone, and his face is a mask again.
“You came.”
“You brought my mother.”
We actually speak at the same time, and I don’t care if this doesn’t mean anything.
For me, it’s...it’s cute, and it bodes well for us, period.
"She was very enthusiastic about attending."
The corner of his mouth twitches as he says this. That almost-smile.
"She thinks we're in love,” I admit apologetically.
"Yes. She mentioned that. Several times."
Before I can respond, the judge steps forward, and the ceremony begins. He speaks about duty and commitment and the binding nature of vows. I stand beside Devyn and try to focus.
But my mind keeps drifting. To my mother, sniffling happily in the third row. To the stalactites glowing overhead. To the warmth of Devyn beside me.
I sneak glances at him. His profile is sharp and serious. His hands are clasped, perfectly still.
He could be carved from marble for all the emotion he shows.
And then it's time for the vows.
Devyn turns to face me. Takes my hands in his. His grip is warm and steady, and my pulse jumps traitorously.
He speaks in French first.
I don't understand the words. My French is limited to "bonjour" and "croissant" and “eureka”. Or maybe the last one isn’t even French?
So no, I don’t understand a single word he’s saying, but his tone?
Oh, his tone.
I understand the weight of each word, like he's carving promises into stone. And the way his eyes never leave mine as he speaks? It’s what makes nine-tenths of the law, and I...secretly like that it’s so.
Devyn finishes the French and switches to English. Standard words now. But his voice is still low, still intense, and he's still holding my hands like he has no intention of letting go.
Then it's my turn.
I say the words I'm supposed to say. I promise things I'm not sure I can deliver. My voice comes out steadier than I expected.
The judge nods. "You may kiss the bride."
I brace myself. This is it. The obligatory kiss. It'll be quick, perfunctory, just enough to satisfy the ceremony. He's not the type for public displays.
He doesn't keep it brief.
His hand comes up to the back of my head, fingers sliding into my carefully arranged hair. His thumb traces along my hairline.
And then he kisses me.
Not brief. Not perfunctory. Not for the crowd at all.
His mouth is warm and firm and insistent. He kisses me like he's been thinking about it, like the almost-kiss three nights ago has been living in his head the same way it's been living in mine. His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, and I forget about the watching crowd, forget about the political theater, forget about everything except the taste of him.
When he finally pulls back, I'm not breathing.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Sixth time.
I'm still counting. Even now, even with my lips tingling and my heart pounding, I'm still keeping track.
He looks at my mouth like he's considering another taste.
He doesn't.
But I know he thought about it.
"Breathe," he murmurs.
I take a shaky breath.
His almost-smile appears.
The judge declares us married. The crowd applauds. Somewhere in the third row my mother is sobbing with joy. And Devyn tucks my hand into the crook of his arm and leads me back down the aisle as husband and wife.
THE RECEPTION IS HELD in the grand ballroom above ground.
Crystal chandeliers. White flowers everywhere. A string quartet. Waiters with champagne and tiny foods I can't identify. And people—so many people wanting to congratulate us, all of them watching me with curiosity and calculation.