She giggles at me. Fucking giggles. "Yeah, of course they are."
"They look fake. I thought maybe you had colored contacts in."
She rests her hand on my shoulder awkwardly and my gaze drops to her chest, following the pearl necklace dangling there. Everything about her is so…small. "Nope…they're real."
She does have some beautiful eyes, so I'll give her a point for that.
"How old are you?" I ask, thinking she looks to be about nineteen or twenty, the same age as my little sister.
"I'm twenty-five, and you?"
"Twenty-six."
"I was w—"
We're interrupted by the photographer. "The sun is setting, guys. I'd like to get you outside by that little lake and get some pictures with the sunset behind you."
I think we've already had a few thousand pictures taken, but we trudge outside anyway to let this dude do his job. Just like the poses we did earlier, Asia is stiff, not relaxing against me and shying away from all the photographer's suggested photos of us kissing or in any way getting too close. Yeah, it's awkward to pose for a wedding photo with a total stranger, but she's not even trying. She could at least fake it so these pictures don't end up looking like we hate each other.
Fed up, I tickle her and she grabs at my hands, giggling, and I sneak a kiss on her lips just as the photographer snaps the photo. "Perfect!" he yells. "Best picture of the night."
"It's about time," I mutter under my breath.
"That wasn't fair," she says, finally smiling. "You totally caught me off guard."
"Get used to it, babe." I grin at her and grab her hand. "Let's go. I think we're at the part where we get to shove cake in each other's faces."
Chapter 8
Asia
Our suite at the hotel is absolutely beautiful and has obviously been prepared for us with the hope of romance and sexy times occurring. A bottle of champagne chilling in ice is positioned alongside a spread of chocolate truffles and fresh fruit, and a trail of red rose petals leads across the sitting room into the adjoining bedroom. There a king-size bed awaits, with a hot tub in the corner surrounded by scattered candles waiting to be lit.
Anxiety creeps over me like a dark cloud. I cannot sleep with him. Not tonight. My nerves are way too rattled, my heart way too heavy, my mind too freaked out with the reality of the situation I just committed myself to.
I try not to stare as he rolls his shirtsleeves up and unbuttons the front of his shirt, exposing his chest and abs—completely covered in tattoos, just like his arms. And although he's definitely good-looking in his own way, he's just not my type at all. I've never been attracted to men with long hair or body art. I have one very tiny tattoo myself, but it's only about an inch big and has special meaning for me. As far as men go, I've always been drawn to men with short hair, thin, athletic bodies, and stable careers. I guess I've always wanted the opposite of my father, who drank, partied, broke the law, and worked in construction. He always seemed dirty to me, even when he was clean. My father's rough exterior was a mirror of his interior. He was bad news, through and through. Even though my new husband isn't a criminal, he's way too raw and wild-looking for my comfort zone.
Again, I wonder if the team made a mistake and put me with the wrong guy by accident. That's the only explanation that makes any sense to me, because he's the complete opposite of what I described in all the forms they made us fill out.