The courthouse judge, his face expectant and wreathed with a smile, had pronounced them husband and wife and invited James to kiss Elizabeth. It was the standard end to a standard civil ceremony. The judge didn’t understand the situation, of course.
This wasn’t a marriage born out of love, but necessity.
They’d planned it in less than a week and invited only a few local friends and James’s kids as witnesses. Other than the bouquet of lace-wrapped pink roses James had unexpectedly produced for her that morning, there were no flowers. No bridesmaids or groomsmen. She was wearing a knee-length cream dress purchased for her niece’s christening twelve years before, while James’s suit pulled a bit at his shoulders and middle. God only knew how long he’d owned it. The rings they’d just donned were thick and gold but completely generic, despite his repeated offers to find other options.
So at the end of the ceremony, she expected a peck on the cheek. Maybe even a brief buss on her lips, for the sake of anyone who might question the wisdom or validity of the marriage.
Instead, James cradled her face in his warm, rough hands with deliberate care. His thumb stroked her cheek in a gentle arc. And he lowered his mouth to hers as her brain fogged with the scent of sunshine and clean cotton. James’s scent.
Then he was kissing her.
Not a peck. Not a buss. A kiss. A tender, exploratory greeting of a kiss.
His beard brushed against her cheeks as he courted every corner, every curve of her mouth. He took his time, and she responded without thinking to the dizzying pleasure of it.
When her mouth opened, the kiss transformed. Still slow, still careful. But no longer innocent or friendly, not with her knowledge of how he tasted and the hoarse rumble in his chest when his tongue met hers for the first time.
Her hands, which had come to rest against that broad barrel of a chest, curled in on themselves. So did her toes.
But somewhere inside, a brittle, hidden part of her unfurled like a fern under his touch. A part she’d deprived of oxygen and nourishment for almost three decades, shoving it deep when it threatened her friendships and her self-respect. Coiling it tight whenever she caught herself imagining things that didn’t exist, possibilities that would never come to fruition.
You cause me bitterness and grief, and I reject both, she’d told it.
Over the last hellish couple of years, she’d forgotten it existed entirely.
Deep-rooted, though, it had apparently remained. Waiting. Dormant. Hopeful.
James’s thick arm encircled her waist and hitched her against his body, and he was surrounding her with heat and strength. If she teetered, he’d keep her upright. If she wanted to hide, she could burrow her face into that delicious-smelling neck and trust he’d shield her. Her secrets. Her vulnerabilities.
Oh, the relief of it. Her eyes prickled, even as her limbs grew warm and languid.
Then he raised his head, arm still tight around her waist, and she dimly registered the hush of a half-dozen stunned wedding guests. All people who knew the situation. Who knew this wasn’t a real marriage, blindingly sweet kiss notwithstanding.
No doubt they were wondering what exactly they’d just witnessed.
Funny. So was she.
Five
After the small,post-wedding gathering of family and friends at James’s house ended, Elizabeth headed directly for the master bathroom. Like the rest of the house, it wasn’t huge, but it was impeccably maintained and impressively outfitted.
“Is it okay if I take a bath?” she called out, already halfway up the stairs.
He appeared at the lowest step a moment later, shaking his head. “Of course it’s okay. This is your house too, Elizabeth. Take a million baths.”
She didn’t need a million. She just needed one, right this second.
She needed water so hot it would melt away her foolishness. She needed bubbles, reminders of how fleeting beauty could be. She needed a wet, warm washcloth over her eyes, simply because this was her damn wedding day. She deserved some pampering.
But most of all, she needed a few minutes alone to remember the circumstances of her wedding.
She hadn’t married for love.
He hadn’t either.
They’d agreed to wed for one reason and one reason only: so she could share his excellent healthcare benefits, get a biopsy the first of next month, and afford any necessary treatments thereafter. It didn’t matter how sweetly and thoroughly he’d kissed her in front of the judge, or how firmly he’d held her hand as they chatted with his amiable sons, or how often he’d told her she looked lovely in her cream dress.
None of that changed anything.
