Svensson brothers blond? While the man in front of me was tall and had a similar build to Gunnar and his brothers, his hair was brown.
I took my place next to my future fake husband at the altar, eyes dead ahead. The officiant, an older lady with half-moon spectacles and a lovey-dovey, crunchy-granola vibe beamed at us.
“Gaze upon the face of the person you will be spending the rest of your life with.”
I turned slowly, expecting to meet gray eyes.
But instead they were blue…and belonged to a familiar man.
“Oh, fuck no!” I said loudly.
Chris, because the universe apparently had a nasty sense of black humor, grinned slowly at me as he looked me up and down.
“Are you wearing a dead cat?”
“This is not a cat,” I hissed at him. “It’s a fake white fox fur stole.”
“But it has the feet and tail and everything.”
“It’s an heirloom piece.”
“Just like the plastic crown?” Chris’s shoulders were shaking as he tried not to laugh.
I straightened my back and pushed my glasses up my nose.
“For your information, my grandmother was awarded this crown when she won the title of queen at the Ms. Smoked Eel pageant. And you’re one to talk,” I told him, ignoring the annoyed gesturing from Gunnar. “You’re wearing a skirt and a moth-eaten blazer.”
“This is a kilt,” he scoffed. “Clearly you are not a woman of taste.”
“That is a plaid skirt.” I pointed stiffly. “I do weddings. I do like a hundred weddings a year. Many of our grooms wear kilts, and that is not a kilt.”
“You’re just turned on by my bare legs,” Chris said, reaching out to pat me on the head.
Rip! The back of his jacket split.
He grinned. “Guess I’m just too muscular to be contained.”
“You smell like a bar,” I said flatly. “And is that eyeliner around your eyes? You look insane.”
“You look like you slept in a puddle!” he retorted.
“Ah, young love!” the officiant interrupted. “Shall we start the wedding?”
“I’m not marrying this loser!” I declared.
“Marry him,” Dana mouthed, making angry motions from the side of the room. “Now.”
I set my jaw stubbornly.
“Just think about the fantastic wedding night I’ll give you,” Chris whispered in my ear, breath laced with booze.
Great, my soon-to-be husband is a drunk and obnoxious and a manipulative liar.
“I was supposed to marry a Svensson,” I mouthed back at Dana.
Her nostrils flared, and she reached in her Birkin bag, pulled out a contract, and jabbed at it with a perfectly manicured finger.
Fuck contracts! I had no assets unless you counted the hundreds of thousands of dollars of student loan debt I had accumulated from my ill-fated run at a bachelor of arts degree and a master’s of fashion photography.
You can’t squeeze blood from a stone. I refused to spend any more time in Chris’s presence. I had been humiliated by him enough, thank you very much.
I turned to walk down the aisle and saw my friends. Ivy was making pleading motions. I sagged. We needed the publicity for our company. Dana was well-connected, and if word got around that Weddings in the City did not fulfill our contracts, we could kiss any more work goodbye.
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. The spilled water had ruined my hair, and tendrils had escaped the elaborate updo and were plastered onto my forehead. I swept them out of my face and turned back to the altar and Chris’s smug face.
“Fine, we will get married.”
“That’s the spirit!” the officiant said.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join these two in holy matrimony…”
Thank goodness it was fake matrimony. If I were really marrying Chris, I wouldn’t survive.
8
Chris
“You may kiss the bride!” The officiant beamed.
I leaned in toward Grace.
“If you touch me,” she warned, “I’m going to shank you with my brooch.”
“Kinky,” I purred, just to get a rise out of her.
She crossed her arms and scowled as we walked down the aisle to the cheers of the crowd, which I suspected were all hired extras. I was going to make a joke about telling her to smile, but Grace’s glare was murderous over her glasses.
“Please continue this way to the reception,” a tall woman wearing all black and sporting a severe bun repeated as we streamed through a lobby to another room with a grand high ceiling and large windows that overlooked the Manhattan skyline.
“Elsie, is there alcohol?” Grace asked. I supposed they must know each other.
“Special craft cocktails!” she promised.
“She better have made watermelon mojitos,” Grace muttered under her breath.