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Her taste was perfect, like strawberries and cream and a dream I hadn’t had in years. Mackenzie’s mouth molded to mine like there wasn’t nearly a decade between this moment and our last kiss. She felt like she belonged in my arms, like—
A wolf whistle pulled me to my senses.
I stepped back, blinking dazedly, as Grant whistled again. The cocksucker was having the time of his damn life, but at least his teasing had brought me back to my senses. That kiss had been too much for a fake wedding—and it was fake, no matter how legal the documents were.
But the heat on my skin and the sweat dampening my palms screamed that this was anything but a lie.
Fuck. I needed to reign myself in.
At least I wasn’t the only person thrown off balance by our kiss. There was a glassy look to Mackenzie’s eyes, a flushed color to her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell with a breathless gasp. I couldn’t help but be captivated—she was drop-dead gorgeous when she was flustered.
“I’m happy to pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant said, an almost amused laugh in her tone. Grant clapped me on the back, pulling my attention from Mackenzie.
“Congratulations, my man. You’re ball-and-chained like the normal mortals.”
“Normal mortals?”
“You know, the weirdos all about the nuclear family and all that.”
Well. Macks and I weren’t going to go nuclear family any time soon. Or, rather, at all, I had to remind myself. Pushing away the thought of her belly rounded with a baby, of how beautiful she’d look pregnant, I met Mackenzie’s eyes with a smile.
“Ready to sign our papers, Mrs. Prince?” I asked. My words were light, but as I spoke the last two words, my voice dropped slightly.
“Of course, Mr. Prince.” She squeezed my hand as our certificate was brought forward—a thick, cream-colored stretch of paper with filigree embossed at the corners and along the edges. Our names were printed in faux calligraphy, and for a measure of old-school charm, we were supposed to sign our names with a fountain pen.
In hindsight, maybe that wasn’t a great choice. As soon as I put the pen to paper, ink splashed out too quick, splotching onto the thick parchment.
“A little eager, are we, Mr. Prince?” Mackenzie teased as I finished signing my name with the mini puddle of ink that had pooled on the paper. She laughed, taking the pen from my hand for her turn.
The universe must’ve had a sense of humor, because as soon as Mackenzie began to write, not only did the ink leak out again but it squirted, spattering her white dress with a thick, black stain. She blinked comically, and without thinking, rubbed the black ink, smearing it into the fabric of the dress in an ill-fated attempt at cleaning up her mess. It blackened her fingers and the once-pristine fabric.
“Oh, fucking cuntwaffles,” she muttered, and the officiant’s eyebrows shot up.
Damn. If Macks really got revved up, we’d get kicked out of here before we could finalize the marriage. I’d heard her go on a tear before, and she could come up with the most creatively offensive curses of anyone I’d ever met.
Before I could say anything, reassure her it was okay—I didn’t give a shit about the dress, and I’d happily buy her a new one if she wanted—Mackenzie snorted. Then she full out laughed, wriggling her fingers at me.
“I wonder if this counts as a happy accident?”
I tilted my head. “Is that… are you making a Bob Ross reference?” I laughed along with her, shaking my head.
“I’m surprised you remember enough of Bob Ross to get it.”
“How could I forget? Used to be your favorite pastime, and you always made me marathon them with you.”
“Made you?” she said, turning her attention back to the certificate to finish signing her name on the now very messy declaration of marriage. “You loved Bob Ross night; don’t stand there and pretend you didn’t.”
Well. I couldn’t argue that point; Bob Ross nights were the best back in the day. Lots of junk food and soda to drink while Mackenzie let Bob Ross videos—recorded on VHS—play in the background while we mused about life and she worked on a new sketch, painting, or art project for class.
Grant, still playing along as our witness, had to sign too. He, however, had his own pen he pulled out of the inside of his suit jacket as opposed to writing using our poor, faulty fountain pen. He rolled his eyes at our antics, quipping something about the two of us being ‘unsophisticated weirdos.’
With all three signatures laid down, the ceremony was over. That was it; Mackenzie and I were married. There was a sense of comforting finality in it, though the reason I was here—my father and his strange requirement for my inheritance—was the last thing on my mind.
Mackenzie Henson was my wife.
Holy fucking shit.
* * *
