“Okay, now!” Morgan grabs my elbow and tugs me away from the women. “She’s not a fan of PDA,” he calls back as he pushes me back to my seat. “But I love her anyway!”
I glare at Morgan as he comes around the bar.
“It’s just a stupid little thing. I wouldn’t have kissed you if you didn’t want it. But I would have handled it in a more charming way.” He grins.
I open my mouth, about to argue that charm doesn’t get you everything, especially, in my experience, with old ladies. Instead, he cuts me off.
“Besides, they think we’re getting married and you’re going to move here and they just want to get to know you. And, yeah, they probably figured they would be invited to my wedding, since they’ve known me since I was in diapers.”
I make a face. “And you’d invite them?”
“Of course.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “How big would our wedding be?”
Morgan leans back against the far counter and crosses an arm over his chest, rubbing his chin with the other. “Well, let’s see. Me, you, your grandma, my best friends—that’s Kit, Hunter, Silas. They’d get dates. I’d like to invite my uncle who lives in Buffalo and maybe his daughters, since he won’t know anyone else and it’d be nice to meet them. The rest of the staff here, like Paul in the back. There are about two thousand Herevians. But,” he wobbles his head back and forth. “Then we’d probably have to hold it outside ’cause there isn’t a venue nearby that could fit that many people. I’m thinking barbecue catering, sometime in late spring, maybe May? Oh, I bet one of my friends could get ordained and do the service.”
Morgan’s gaze returns to mine. He leans forward, reaching over the bar, and with a finger under my chin, clicks my mouth closed.
“Hypothetically, of course.”
My brain is trying to calibrate some kind of response to the entire planning out of a completely never-going-to-happen wedding in front of me, so it takes me a moment to realize that Morgan’s hand hasn’t left my face. Instead, his gaze drops to my mouth and his thumb brushes over my bottom lip.
Is he going to kiss me?
No, of course not. Morgan sighs and pulls away. He looks like he’s about to say something else when someone calls down the bar for a drink refill, and Morgan gives me a small smile before he walks away.
The wedding plans tumble through my mind as Morgan does his job. What he’s describing sounds awful. I can picture the groom’s side chock-full of people and on my side just my grandma. Who else am I going to invite? Work colleagues? They live hours away. I wouldn’t know anyone at my wedding.
The check Grandma gave me burns a hole in my pocket. It would more than cover an outdoor, barbecue-catered wedding, even for two thousand Herevians. I can’t believe Grandma would casually throw so much money at me like that.
Guilt sits deep in my stomach. Obviously, I’m not going to deposit the check. That might be a problem later down the line when she notices the money’s still in her account. In all likelihood, I’ll be right there with her when she notices, considering we spend time during every single visit reviewing her bank statements.
My tots come out of the kitchen and I juggle them, my beer, and my helmet and head over to an empty booth. I’m tired of people-ing right now, and the anxiety of introducing Grandma to Morgan today has me exhausted.
So exhausted I wolf down my food and then close my check with Morgan.
“Hold up,” he says when I’ve paid. “I’ll walk you out.” He points to the room with the pool table, where I recognize a few of his friends. “Be right back!” he shouts.
There are whoops, which I choose to ignore.
My bike’s right out front, down a few stairs and in the first parking spot. Morgan puts his hands in his pockets. “So, when am I going to see you again?”
“On my regularly scheduled visit, duh.”
Morgan laughs. “What, I can’t hope that I’ll get to see my fiancée more often now?”
“Fake fiancée,” I say. When I look up, I’m facing the bar and the giant windows where several faces now peer out at us. “Fucking hell. We have an audience.”
He glances over and whistles. “What did you say earlier? Dancing monkeys?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. It would look really weird if I didn’t kiss my fiancé goodbye, right?
“If I dipped you and kissed you right now, would you punch me?”
“Probably.” I swing my leg over the bike, just to make sure he wasn’t seriously considering it.
“Good thing I’ll settle for a kiss on the cheek.” He turns his back to the window, facing me, his thigh bumping up against my knee. Then he leans in and gently presses the side of his face to mine, barely brushing me. It probably looks like a real kiss to anyone watching. “Drive safe,” he whispers, and then backs up.
