Page 32 of Sweet Surrender

I don’t have a huge army of people in my corner for support, but she’s been there since the first day I moved in and it’s just how it’s been. Her, me, our businesses, and our gossip.

And now she’s standing before me with squinted eyes as she studies me. “I’m letting you off the hook right now, but I know there’s more you’re not telling me. We’ll revisit this again.”

I let the comment be. It might serve me well once I show up married to Jase as a justification as to why I’m flustered.

After more small talk and non-answers on my part, Josie heads to the café while I slink down into a chair and draw in a deep breath.

The last forty-eight hours have been a doozy. I’ve packed and unpacked my things about ten times. They’re sitting in the trunk of my car while I debate pulling them out and going through them again. What exactly does one bring to move in with her soon-to-be pretend husband when she doesn’t even know what’s expected of her?

Do you bring books to read because there will be bouts of awkward silence? What about pajamas? Do you bring onesies so there’s no temptation to unzip anything to save face from you liking him more than he likes you? Will there be food or does he have a private chef who cooks for him every night?

Then there’s the whole fact that I’m going to be married in less than two days. I’ve been sent a plane ticket, been told where to meet the car and go once I get there . . . but everything else feels . . . “Ugh,” I say into the silence.

There’s no manual on how to prepare for a fake marriage, nor for the unknown of the next few months.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Hendrix

Overwhelmed is an understatement.

I glance around the suite at the Four Seasons Hotel Las Vegas and shake my head. It’s like a tornado and a hurricane hit the room all at once. The far end of the space holds racks and racks of clothing. When I said I needed a shopping budget to beef up my wardrobe and make me look the part of Jase’s wife, I didn’t expect to walk into the suite in Las Vegas and find a personal shopper complete with what felt like a whole store to take my pick from.

What I’d expected to find was Jase sitting there with that cocky smile and a how are we going to laugh our way through this one expression.

Instead, I was met with a team of people. First, the personal shopper came in and spent more than an hour walking me through outfit combinations and accessories that coordinated with each. I was measured and sized, and then all I had to do was say yes or no like some purchasing agent for an upscale company. If I said yes, it was to be shipped and delivered to Jase’s house. If I said no, it was placed on a rejection rack and carted away.

Then there were shoes, purses, and jewelry to accessorize with.

I felt like I was in some bizarre movie where I didn’t belong. One where I longed to call my mom and have someone to share this ridiculous scenario with. She’d laugh at how ludicrous this is and gasp with her hand over her mouth before asking me the same thing I’m thinking—how is this real?

The guilt in not telling her about this hits hard.

Next were the wedding dresses. More racks of dresses but this time, the choice of color was between ivory to white, the fabric from satin to tulle, and the style from strapless to full sleeves. I shoved my emotions aside and forced myself to look at them as what would fit the narrative rather than what the little girl inside me had always dreamed her wedding dress to look like.

It made the task easier. Less personal. Especially when the folder on my desktop already had saved images of dresses I thought I’d pick from to marry Paul in the near future.

Then came the glam squad. A team of hair and makeup and manicurists waiting to dote on my every need. All I really wanted were two things: to have some silence and solitude so I could prepare myself for what was happening in a few hours and to see Jase.

It’s like we signed the agreement to do this and we haven’t really talked since. Sure, we’ve exchanged texts about a few things over the past few days, but without his charm and his dimpled smile that convinced me this was a good idea, I’m silently freaking the fuck out.

But I got what I asked for. I’m alone. The room has emptied, the solitude I was seeking now here, but with it came the anxiety the silence brought with it.

“Deep breath,” I murmur as I look in the floor-length mirror and my reflection looking back at me.

The dress is gorgeous—and not the me I thought I was. Sounds funny, but true. I’d never thought I’d select a column of soft ivory like this. It complements my curves with a fitted bodice without being overstated, and the back is open so that the fabric pools just above the swell of my ass. My hair has been pulled up and soft tendrils frame my face so that it looks styled but not overdone.

Nerves rattle in a way I didn’t expect. So do my thoughts.

I’m getting married shortly.

My mom’s going to kill me when she finds out I excluded her from this moment.

My life is about to get exponentially harder and easier all in one big swoop.

I invited this development. I agreed to it.

I take a deep breath. It’s too late to back out now—way too late—and yet cold feet are a real fucking thing.