My (Mostly) Fake Wedding - Penelope Bloom Page 0,57

nude,” I whispered.

“That’s okay, Big Boy,” she murmured, eyes already closed. “Mama’s tired.”

I raised my eyebrows, then covered my laughter with my fist. Apparently, sleepy Belle had just as much of a tendency toward kinky and wild as drunken Belle. Was there a single surprise about the woman I didn’t like?

I felt a little ridiculous doing it, but I kicked off my shoes and sprawled out on the couch across from the bed. Belle and I had slept together numerous times, but I felt strange tonight. Part of me felt like we’d had a real moment at the rehearsal, and I hoped that wasn’t just my brain seeking the truth it wanted. I could still feel the comfortable weight of her head against my chest as we danced. I could remember the smell of her shampoo like fruity strawberries drifting up to my nose.

I’d realized regardless of our deal or any silly arrangement we’d made, this was her wedding. She was a woman, and like most women, she’d probably dreamed about this day for her whole life. And I was the bastard who’d cornered her into selling that moment to me and my Satan-spawn of a brother.

Last night she let herself enjoy the moment, and that was when I knew what I needed to do. I was going to make sure she got the wedding of her dreams—the groom of her dreams. Okay, maybe that was over-promising. But I was at least going to make sure I didn’t fuck up tomorrow.

I had no idea if Belle was remotely on the same page as me. I’d gone from wondering if maybe I wanted this thing to last to feeling existential dread at the idea of it ending. I’d say I had gone head over heels for her, except I never understood that phrase. I mean, wasn’t my head typically over my heels? Wouldn’t it be heels over head if I was supposed to be falling for her?

Questions like that were above my paygrade, but I knew one thing.

Tomorrow, I was marrying the woman I loved.

I just didn’t know how long I’d get to keep her.

37

Damon

There were a few things I knew for certain in my life. My brother, Chris, was an idiot. I loved my wife, Chelsea. I loved Luna. I hated when people walked and didn’t bother to pick their damn feet up.

But I also knew when my brother was happy. Actually happy. Last night I’d watched him dance with Belle at the rehearsal dinner, and some isolated, ill-advised corner of my heart broke a for him. That was my little brother, after all. He was clearly in deep for the wedding planner, but as far as I could tell, she was firmly on the fence about him.

It made me wish there was something I could do, and against my better judgment, I decided to go seek him out the morning of the ceremony. I knocked on the door of his room. “You alone?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Chris grunted. “Just—” he groaned with relief. “Just a second.”

I screwed up my face at the door, trying very hard not to imagine what my idiot brother was doing in there. I’d once walked in on him doing naked yoga, and I suspected I still needed to see an optometrist about updating my prescription after having my retinas burned like that.

“Okay,” he said, still sounding like he was breathing heavy.

“You’re sure you’re alone?” I asked, hesitating with my hand on the door.

“Yeah.”

I pushed it open to see Chris with his back to me. He was hunched over at the shoulders slightly and his arm was pumping up and down, shaking his whole body.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, shielding my eyes. “I need you to stop masturbating. Immediately.”

Without stopping his arm, Chris turned around with a shit-eating grin on his face. That was when I saw the protein drink he was shaking in his hand. Between belly laughs, my brother put it right over his crotch and groaned like he was enjoying himself as he shook it a few more times, then laughed harder.

I shook my head, searching the depths of my soul for the will not to laugh—not to encourage him. Unfortunately, I smiled a little, which gave Chris all the ammunition he needed to cook up yet another dumb stunt in the endless procession of dumb stunts that was his life. “Are you finished?”

Something lit up in his eyes, and I knew I’d asked the wrong question. He stuck the shaker cup out to