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I shake my head at her and take a sip of my iced coffee.
It could be negative ten degrees and I will still always order iced coffee over hot.
“I already told you, he said he wasn’t looking for sex. This isn’t that kind of agreement.”
“Not looking for sex and not wanting sex are different. And did you see the size of that man’s glutes? I bet he has a nice power play he could show you.”
The memory of how effortless it felt when Ryker caught me around the waist right before I fell on my ass in the parking lot, comes back to me. There’s no denying that the man is in good shape.
“We’re not going to be sleeping together. This is transactional only. We get married, he gets me the contract, we jump through all the hoops for his green card, and then a quick, painless divorce.”
Shawnie pulls out her phone from her back pocket as we continue walking through the mall.
We already picked out the warmest knee-length camel peacoat jacket I could find and a cute beanie and matching gloves from one of the designer department stores.
I’ll pair it with a pair of straight-legged dark wash jeans and my high-heeled booties that I already have at home.
If I’m going to be meeting Marjorie Carlton again, I want to look as professional as possible, and not freeze my ass off in the process, like I did last time.
“Give me your phone,” she tells me.
“Why?” I ask, but when Shawnie wants something, it’s better to give in.
It’s not as if I don’t trust her.
She knows every password to every account I have, including the code to my cell.
“Just give it here,” she insists.
“Fine,” I say, handing it over with a huff.
We pass by one of the boutique wedding shops in the mall.
Seeing the dress has me thinking about the fact that in less than ninety days, I might be walking down the aisle to Ryker. It’s an odd vision — not how I pictured my first wedding.
Ick… first wedding.
I promised myself that when I got married I’d do it right so I never go through a divorce like my parents, and here I am, already planning to have a second wedding before I even have the first.
“See? Look,” she says, holding my phone up to my face. “You’re going to be living under the same roof as this.”
I stop at the abrupt swinging of my phone in my face and when I finally focus in on the picture, I come face to face with a half-naked photo of Ryker in only a pair of boxer briefs.
I’ve internet-stalked him a little—I’ll admit, but I’ve never seen this picture. It’s an underwear ad for a large men’s brand and Ryker has all the right assets to belong in it.
His muscular arms fletching with his hands behind his head…
His rippling abs draw your eyes down to the deep V of his pelvis…
That bulge in his boxers and those thick glutes.
Ok, the man has a drool-worthy body, but that is for someone else to fan themselves over. I can’t let myself think of him like that.
Our marriage has an expiration date shorter than an overripened banana.
“What’s your point?” I ask.
“This man is going to be your husband. The one man on earth you absolutely should be screwing on the regular, and you’re asking me what my point is?” she asks, her eyebrows stitching together.
