“Are you buying me a pair?” she asks.
I gesture at the crew for a first-aid kit, then grab a big Band-Aid for the small injury on her foot. “A closetful.”
Laughing, she takes a step toward our waiting car. I pick her up and carry her toward it instead.
“Ack.” She loops her arms around my neck. “What are you doing?”
“Not having my wife walk around the city barefoot.”
“It’s only to the car.” She tilts her head.
“Not happening. Princess carry.”
“Queen carry!”
Her insistence that she’s a queen sends shivers through my chest. “Why do you want to be a queen?” I ask, outwardly indifferent, although my pulse picks up speed.
“Because she’s theboss.”
The answer is so similar to the one Queen from Oregon gave. It makes my heart skip a beat.
“Plus, I’m too old to be a princess,” she adds matter-of-factly.
“A woman is never too old to be a princess,” I say firmly, amused by her attitude. She’s not even thirty, although from the way she’s described her life so far, her experience might be less than a typical woman in her late twenties. “Besides, a princess gets a prince. Ever think about that?”
“Princes are overrated. Unless he’s ridiculously handsome, sweet, rich, moral and—”
“Good in bed?”
She flushes, but nods. “I was getting around to that.”
The crew put my bag in the trunk and the driver opens the door.
“You don’t know how to drive?” she says, eyeing him.
“I only arranged for a pickup in case I was hungover and tired.” Barry’s parties are wild and never end before the sun rises. Although I make it my policy not to get wasted, I wanted to be prepared, just in case.
I put her in the car, then climb in. She sits with the dress spread primly around her legs, totally composed.
So far, nothing except my initial refusal to go along with the marriage seems to throw her off. But I want to upset her equilibrium as she’s done to me. I pull her onto my lap, eliciting a satisfying gasp.
“We don’t have to pretend anymore,” she whispers into my ear. Her eyes dart to the front seat. “I don’t think he’s paying attention.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. Funny how she’s acting shy all of a sudden after demanding from mesatisfyingsex or else. “My family needs to believe this marriage is real. So you’ll cooperate.”
She frowns. “Why does it matter what they think?”
“Because they’re hoping I’ll bring home a nice, respectable wife.”
“I don’t think nice, respectable wives sit on their husbands’ laps.”
“Do you have a lot of experience with married life?”
Her mouth purses. “No, but I’ve never seen a married couple sit like this.”
“I have.”
She ignores me. “My aunt and uncle didn’t. My parents didn’t, either. At least, I don’t think so.”
