Page 71 of Sweet Surrender

“What?” I chuckle.

“When you’re afraid I’m going to give you a dead honest opinion—”

“I expect nothing less.”

“Remember that.” She waggles a finger in my direction and then finishes her thought. “You crack jokes to lighten the blow.”

I turn and add the mixture of dry ingredients and then move toward where she stands at the edge of the kitchen. I grab a rag and wipe my hands on it, purposely keeping it over my left ring finger. “So, you’re right. I do have something to tell you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Your tone is concerning.” I laugh nervously. “If you tell me you’re pregnant with Fucktard’s baby, I’m going to need a minute to swallow the litany of obscenities that will take over my mind before I can speak.”

“No. God, no. It’s nothing like that.” I wipe a hand over my brow. “Jesus. Thank you. Anything I say now is tame compared to that.”

“So . . .?”

I grip the back of the chair and inhale. “So I don’t want you to find out through the media.”

“That’s . . . ominous. And intriguing.” She leans back, studying me as her brows arch. “Why would the media write anything about little ol’ you?”

My fingers tighten around the chair. “I got married this past weekend.”

She stares at me, deadpan. “Yeah. Sure. And I’m the fucking Pope.”

I don’t say anything, but just chew on my bottom lip, waiting for it to hit her.

Her mouth drops open. “Wait. I mean . . . there’s no way you’re serious.”

I nod, my pulse thumping.

Her eyes bulge. “What the actual fuck?” she hisses, grabbing my wrist and yanking me closer. I can see when the other part of my comment breaks through the shock. “I’ll ask again, why would the media know about it?” Her tone is cautious, questioning, and disbelieving.

We do live in the City of Angels where celebrities are on every corner—or rather in every café in my case—so it’s not a far-off assumption for her to make that I just might have married someone famous.

“Who?” I didn’t think her eyes could widen any farther but they do.

“You’re not going to believe it even when I say the name.”

“Try me.”

I take a breath. “You ever heard of the band BENT?”

She blinks. Then scoffs. “Okay. You’re funny.”

I don’t say anything. Instead, I slowly pull the towel off my hand where it rests on the top of the chair so that the diamond can glint in the shop’s bright lights.

Josie freezes. Stares. Then—

“Wait. No.” Her head rocks back and forth. “OH MY GOD.” She looks over her shoulder at where Sammy is standing outside and then back at me as it all connects. “Which one? Gizmo or Rocket? The other two are married. Their wedding photos were posted all over the place.” I don’t fight the smile that spreads on my lips as she moves toward me, reaching for my hand and ogling the diamond on my finger. “Rocket? Less tattoos. More mellow. Ridiculously handsome. A tad more reserved if you can call a rock star reserved.”

I remain silent, the smile still there, and let her work through it all in her head.

“Gizmo?” Her eyes narrow. “The man is gorgeous. Sexy. A little reckless for your taste. The exact opposite of Paul. Well, I mean, both are but he’s even further in the sliding scale of preppy accountant to bad boy if that’s even possible.” Her cheeks flush and she rolls her eyes. “My God. You’re so full of shit. You have me sitting here trying to pick a husband for you when you’re just trying to get me all worked up, aren’t you?”

“I’m not. No.” This is rather amusing. “The ring is real.”

She studies it again, a sound of approval falling from her lips as the lights hit the diamonds and cast prisms around the room. “He ain’t joking with that rock.” She looks up at me. “Hendrix?”

“Hmm?” I play coy.