My (Mostly) Fake Wedding - Penelope Bloom Page 0,63

her forehead, leaning on her other arm. “I can’t believe we did this.”

“Marry me, Belle Waters.”

“I already did,” she said, sticking her hand out.

I slid the rings on her finger, feeling immediately better. “Damn right you did.”

“Was this as romantic as you imagined it would be?”

I pulled her in close, wrapping my arms around her waist. “I don’t really do a lot of imagining. I just kind of do.”

“Is that right?” she asked, eyes getting heavy as she searched my face, her gaze lingering on my mouth.

“It is. And as a demonstration, now I’ll do you.”

“Here? There are like a million windows. Anybody could be watching.”

“Then we’ll do it in the gardens. I know how flowers get you going.”

She gave me a wry look. “Want to know a secret? It’s you. Against my better judgment, you are the thing that gets me going. In a boat. In a moat. In a plane or on a train.”

“Don’t quote Shakespeare to me. You’ll get me all hot and bothered.”

“Shakesp… Wait, are you serious?”

I scooped her up, carrying her toward the gardens. Some questions were better left unanswered.

One Month Later

I rubbed the back of my neck, which was still hot and a little sore from the sunburn Belle and I had picked up while we boated around the Pacific Rim. It had been a classy, sex-filled, possibly pregnancy inducing honeymoon for the ages.

It had also been the first time she’d really felt free to me. I hadn’t realized how much she’d been trying to restrain herself until she finally let go, and all it was doing was making me more crazy for her.

At the moment, we were sitting around the dinner table at my brother’s house. Chelsea had made my second favorite meal, a dish she lovingly called “tuna noodle.” A little detective work had shown me it was supposed to be some sort of casserole with a crunchy top of oven-toasted salty chips with a gooey mixture of sauce, tuna, and noodle beneath.

The monstrosity on my plate was vaguely reminiscent of a brain. It was pinkish, glistening, and seeping fluids.

Belle was an unfortunate virgin of Chelsea’s cooking, and was staring at her plate with mingling horror and dismay.

Luna sat opposite us between Damon and Chelsea, while Milly and Chelsea’s brother, Grant, were at either end of the table. Everybody except Damon was doing something to stop from having to be the first to take a bite.

Damon dutifully picked up his fork and gave a small look toward his wife that I thought only I caught. My best guess of its meaning was, you’re lucky I love you so much. Then he plunged his fork into the meal with a wet schlup and began eating.

While Damon attacked his task with a serious expression, the rest of us seemed more intent on moving it around our plates to hopefully create the illusion we’d actually eaten some.

There was a clatter and then a shattering sound. “Oops,” Luna said. She met my eyes, then gave me a vague shake of her head and a wink.

Chelsea looked down. “Luna! Oh, baby, it’s okay. There’s plenty more. I had an extra batch in the kitchen in case anyone wanted seconds.”

Luna hung her head in defeat as Chelsea cleaned up the mess, then replaced her plate with a steaming, even bigger portion than before. I briefly wondered if maybe Chelsea and my brother were a good match because the woman was secretly just as sadistic as he was. What if this whole horrible cook routine was just an act? What if she was watching us all right now knowing full well what was happening?

Hmm.

Belle leaned close. “What do we do? I can’t make myself bite this.”

“Just talk. When she leaves the table, we’ll throw it out the window.”

“Seriously?”

“No. I tried that once. Her lasagna punched through the roof of a parked car.” Okay, I was exaggerating. I also couldn’t figure out how to remove the screens from Damon’s windows. “We just don’t eat it, then say our appetites were off. I do it all the time.”

Belle nodded.

Eventually, conversation started up around the table. “So?” Damon asked. “How was the honeymoon.”

My dick is still sore. “Great,” I said.

Epilogue - Belle

Chris was dressed in a suit, and even though we’d had a brief struggle over it in the car, I’d managed to stop him from undoing his tie and half-undressing himself as he had a tendency to do. I wanted him to look professional and sharp, not like he was dripping