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“I hope Liam has a good lawyer,” I say to Dylan as we walk around the edge of the pool area toward the arriving guests.
Dylan puts his finger to my lips. “Shush, Sky. That’s not appropriate for a wedding.” He lowers his voice. “Even if I agree.”
“I’m serious—do you think she loves him?” The rose-petal strewn, red-carpeted aisle is out of bounds; instead, we wander along the edge to take our place close to the front. I perch on the chair, disentangling myself from the thick candy pink ribbons covering the back.
“Who knows?” he replies.
That’s dismissive for a friend who could end up with his heart ripped out. Or is he the one who’ll do that to Honey? I can’t stop picturing the woman in the shop and her little girl. Who are they? Is she at home watching the internet the way I once tracked Dylan?
The chairs around fill up with designer dressed guests, and I’m relieved we’re at the front and tucked into a corner near a tree. Famous faces flash in and out of the crowd; actors and actresses I recognise but never thought I’d meet. One or two cross to air kiss Dylan and angle for an introduction to me.
I shift down in my seat as yet another Hollywood celebrity wanders away. “Can we wait until I’ve had a drink before I talk to these people? My face is starting to hurt from false smiling.”
“Funny, Sky.” He kisses me gently then places a hand on my knee.
A minute later, the same hand sneaks up my inner thigh. I grab hold and dig my nails into the back. “Behave!”
Dylan shuffles out of his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. As he does, his scent washes over me, interrupting my anxiety. Dylan’s gravity holds me to him and keeps me in place when I’m lost. He catches the look on my face and smoothes my hair. “You look beautiful, Sky.”
“I don’t fit here.”
“Nobody here fits; they all just try. You and I, we fit each other. What the hell do they matter?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not doing this, by the way.”
The topic of our marriage adds a shine to his eyes. “Good. And no pink. I hate pink.”
The amount of pink surrounding us would make a six-year-old girl’s ballerina themed bedroom seem dull. “I’m not a fluffy pink girl.”
“No, you’re definitely not. Any more thoughts about our wedding?” he asks, rubbing his finger across the ring. “I want soon.”
“And Dylan Morgan always gets what he wants?”
The hand sneaks back up my leg again, thumb brushing my inner thigh lightly enough to elicit a response. “Usually.”
“Oh, well, we should’ve asked for a double-wedding then,” I say.
Dylan chokes back a laugh. “You and your bestie? That would’ve been a sight!”
The photographers are in a row close by, snapping pictures of the guests as they arrive. One magazine secured exclusive rights to publish the event, for a price of course. Honey and Liam—well, Honey—get final say on which photos they print, so I’m less stressed about pictures of us. I doubt she’d allow any to eclipse her moment.
“I’m not having all this either,” I say, waving my hand at the circus around us.
“Yes, you are.”
I stare at him, stiffening. “What?”
“You have to plan the most extravagant, Honey-eclipsing wedding you can and tell the world the date and place, book a better magazine for a higher price, and get us on the front page of every newspaper.” Dylan’s voice is raised and I gape at him, unable to respond. In the row behind, I hear someone murmur something and I stiffen. Great.
“Dylan! Do you want to marry me or not? How can you think I want that?”
I’m ready to get angry, until I spot the Dylan glint and smile pulling the corner of his mouth up. I narrow my eyes at him.
Leaning toward me, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ears, the sensation shooting familiar tingles across my face. “Then two days before, we get married before anybody realises what’s happening, we disappear, and laugh at them all,” he whispers, and then kisses me quickly on the cheek before turning away.
I heave a sigh at his words, at the heat, and at the fact, I want today over.
Dylan’s phone beeps and he pulls it from his pocket. When he reads the screen, his brow furrows.
