My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,132

in my dress. I could’ve worn pants tonight, but I’d wanted to look nice for dinner and hadn’t cared about the appropriateness of a skirt on a bike. Now, the dress seems especially apropos.

I guide our caravan of cars through the night by tapping Lorenzo’s belly and pointing where I want him to go.

Several minutes later, we pull into the parking lot as an entourage of vehicles—one motorcycle, my parents’ Mercedes, Ross and Vi’s new SUV—pretty sure that’s for the additional kids they’re planning but not telling anyone about yet—and Kaede’s fancy sports car he got to celebrate the opening of the latest One Life Gym.

Lorenzo parks and shuts off the Ducati, looking over his shoulder at me. The quiet of the night is shocking, and the sign’s yellow glow throws Lorenzo’s face into highlights and shadows. I can’t read his expression. He’s not mad or surprised. Maybe it’s simply acceptance.

He helps me take the helmet off and whispers, “We’re getting tattoos?”

I bite my lip to keep my plan from popping out like a champagne cork. Okay, not plan . . . this is a scheme too. I’ll admit that, even if I’ve argued the semantics of the two words multiple times with Ross.

“Uhm, sort of?” I respond. “Come on!”

Our hands locked, Lorenzo and I walk through the glass door, triggering a tinkling bell.

“Reno!” I shout.

“Hold your fucking horses,” his gruff voice answers.

“Abi?” Dad is looking around with uncertainty. And maybe a little bit of distaste.

I press up against Lorenzo, my hands on his chest as I look up at him, a plea in my eyes. “When we were here before—”

“You have a tattoo?” Vi snaps. “Why don’t I know this? Why haven’t I seen it?”

I decide right then and there that Ross is the best brother ever because he places a hand over Vi’s lips and whispers something in her ear that makes her mouth clack closed and her eyes silently lock on me. There’ll be hell to pay later, I know that, but for now, she’s letting me keep this train chug-a-chuggin’.

I repeat, a bit harsher, “When we were here before . . .” softer, just to Lorenzo, I continue, “Did you hear what Reno said about how he started tattooing?”

Lorenzo shakes his head. “He could’ve said anything. All I saw was you. All I heard were the little whimpers of pain when he went over your ribs. I wanted to take the pain from you, feel it myself so you wouldn’t have to.”

“Ribs?” Vi says behind Ross’s hand. Well, I think that’s what she said, but it’s pretty muffled.

“He’s an ordained minister for a motorcycle club of vets. He’s former military himself. But he can legally . . .”

Lorenzo’s eyes flare, not with brightness but with dark heat. “You mean . . . ?”

“Abigail Marie Andrews! You cannot get married at a tattoo parlor in a dinner dress!” Mom shouts, utterly horrified. She’s gone along with a whole lot of strange things, loved me through some weird phases, and supported some odd ideas, but apparently, this is too far.

I turn to look at Mom. “I’m already married, remember? Or so everyone thinks. Might as well make it true. Besides, I don’t want to wait.” Locking my eyes back on Lorenzo, I repeat myself softer, sweeter, “I don’t want to wait. Do you?”

He might say no. He absolutely could, and I’d have to be okay with that. Hell, one of us should probably be the voice of reason in any given situation and it’s rarely going to be me.

But I hope . . . deep down inside my soul, I hope he’s the wild to my crazy, the ride to my die, the kerosene to my fire.

“No, I don’t want to wait to make you mine. If this is what you want, it’s what I want. Anything, always . . . for you.”

Swoon.

Maybe it’s the accent, I decide. Maybe one day, Lorenzo will be telling me to wash the damn dishes for the tenth time in a row and I’ll realize that it’s not what he says, it’s how he says it. But if that’s the case, it’s not happening today.

Today, he is romance, seduction, sweet, and sexy . . . all tied up in one sexy package of man. And he’s in my arms with his wrapped around me, his palm cupping my ass right here in front of God, my family and friends, and even my parents. And if they don’t like it, they can learn