But then he meets my eyes, and for a fleeting second, everything shifts. His posture eases, his defenses drop, and the sharp energy he carries seems to smooth out.
“That was before I saw you,” he says, his voice quiet but devastatingly sure.
He means it. I can tell it’s not some performative, sweep-you-off-your-feet line. He says it with the certainty of someone who had one plan and suddenly finds himself living another.
And damn it to hell, I think I feel it too. Like something shifted the second we stepped out of those pods and into the light. Into each other. It feels like, ‘I do,’ flipped a switch neither of us expected.
My smile is instant. Cheeks burning, completely useless at hiding the blush he’s managing to pull out of me. “Nice line, charmer. But we’re still only doing this for one night. I’m a woman of my word.”
“Famous last words,” he whispers.
Something about this moment feels suspended. The noise of the world fades until the reality of it all shifts. Transporting us into a scene from a romantic comedy where the credits have stopped rolling, and there’s no one left in view but us.
“I’m actually not a charmer,” he says with an honesty that throws me. “Most people think I’m an asshole. A bit rigid.”
“You don’t seem rigid to me,” I say slowly, lifting my hand to show him the plastic band still unfamiliar on my finger. “We just walked out of a pod, into a chapel, and came out husband and wife. That doesn’t exactly scream uptight, in my humble opinion.”
He looks at my hand, then back at me, before closing the gap between us.
It isn't a threat or even an aggressive play. He just moves in close enough for me to catch his scent. It’s clean skin and freshlinen, underpinned by something warm and woodsy. It makes me wonder how he takes his tea every morning.
“So what now, Ms. Mysterious?”
I laugh—part nerves, part shock that this is even my life.
“I think…” I say slowly, “Would you mind if maybe we spend a little more time getting to know each other?”
He studies me like he’s not used to hearing no. But there’s no annoyance in his face. “Of course,” he says, voice low and sincere. “No pressure. And if at any point you want to pull the plug on this whole bloody thing, we’ll do it. Straight away. I never want you to feel trapped with me.”
He’s…special.
“Should we maybe come up with a safe word? For when things get too heavy?”
His brow lifts then his expression goes mischievous. “Safe word sounds fun. Define heavy.”
I shake my head. “Nothing like that, perv.” Yet. “I don’t know. Too much?”
His voice drops an octave, teasing. “Too dangerous?”
Oh, boy. If his voice dips any lower, my panties are going to follow suit.
“Just… if we start talking about something, or doing something, that’s more than we’re ready for,” I clarify, fighting to keep my focus. “Or if we simply change our minds.”
“Alright,” he says thoughtfully. “How about ‘line’?”
I squint at him. “Line? Why line?”
“When playing football—” he pauses and appears to be searching for the right words. “I suppose here you’d call it the field. There are white lines that mark the boundaries. So, if I do anything to cross a line—”
“Or get close to crossing a line,” I cut in.
“Exactly. You just hold up a hand and say ‘line.’ And I’ll stop. Walk away. No questions asked.”
I smile. Because somehow, this ridiculous, impulsive, accidental marriage actually feels safe.
Except for the fact that he mentioned sports. After everything with Croix, that’s the one subject I’m not ready to touch. The second the word football leaves his mouth, I make a mental note to steer clear—even if, technically, Croix plays soccer.
I shake the thought of him out of my head. If I start talking about sports, I’ll start thinking about Croix. And if I think about Croix, I’ll remember just how recently I walked away from a relationship that looked perfect on paper, but never once made me feel like this.
