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Protection. The word squeezed the air from her lungs. She didn’t think she’d need it, but she also never thought she’d be having this conversation with a stranger. Besides, she’d been the one helping out her brother for so long. Making all the decisions. What if, for once, someone else helped them, even if for his own advantage? “All right. I’ll do it.”
Happy Fucking Birthday, Lara. You just got yourself a husband.
* * *
“Are you ready?” Moira, the wedding organizer, asked. She was a small woman with a big attitude who had sold him a wedding package over the phone. Now, inside the small room where he’d changed into the suit he brought, Troy took a deep breath.
Marriage.
He’d never seen himself married, but this would be the best way to solve his problems. If he married, his father would not only get off his back, he’d trust him again. Hell, his brother probably would—maybe even forgive him. And he’d get to go back to manage the family business from Los Angeles and forget about Tulip.
Six months, he’d assumed, would be enough time to parade Lara around and establish himself as a decent, married man. After that, he could make up some excuses for Lara’s absence during family functions and stretch out this fake marriage ruse for maybe a year. No one would care. His lawyer, who he’d used to draw a quick NDA and pre-nuptial agreement which Lara had signed, was trustworthy.
“Yes.”
Moira nodded. “Great. If you follow me, your bride will join us soon.”
He walked up to the altar and stood next to the priest. Moira put on some cheesy music, and the lights dimmed for a moment, giving the tacky chapel a more intimate feel. He stretched to his full height and focused on the woman strolling from the entrance.
They could have just signed their names on a piece of paper, but the pictures that Moira—yet again, wearing another hat—snapped of them would be a nice touch to show his family. They might not believe him at first, so he needed every piece of evidence he could get.
A simple white dress hugged Lara’s curves, and made her bronze skin glow. Her hair cascaded around her face, with loose curls he wanted to run his fingers through. His breath caught in his throat and his heart thundered, even if a part of him clung to the fact this was all for show. He didn’t know much about this woman and shouldn’t get involved with her—other than what was strictly necessary to keep up the farce for however long was needed. Six months, at most.
A neutral expression masked her face, and he wondered what went through her head.
Moira whispered something before she made it to the small altar, and a ghost of a smile formed on her lips. Moira snapped a couple of pictures.
“You look good,” he said when she joined him. Good? She was a lot more than that. Her dark red lips and expressive eyes made him want to pull her to him and kiss her senseless. His throat felt dry and thick, like he hadn’t had a drink of liquid in days. He cleared it, pushing down the lump of frustration.
She shrugged and looked away, facing the minister.
He followed suit, telling himself not to stray any glance her way. To be strong and focused. And he kept it going, until the minister told him, “You may kiss the bride.”
He angled closer to her and saw the surprise in her eyes. Should he just go for the cheek? But what kind of picture would that make? Moira shortened the gap, with her camera in tow, ready for the big moment.
Make it fast, he told himself. He dipped his head, and she met him halfway. Her lips trembled a bit, and he wondered if she had the same idea—to make it fast. However, as he brushed his lips with hers, fast was the last thing on his mind. A shot of electricity coursed through him, switching on parts of him that should remain dormant when it came to Lara. Her lips were soft, plump, delicious. He wanted to delve his tongue past them, and—
She slowly disengaged from him, and he blinked, bringing himself to an upright position. They were declared husband and wife and posed in front of some heart shaped background as per Moira’s direction.
With the marriage certificate in hand, they slid inside the limo that took them to the private airfield, and soon were again boarding the private jet.
“How do you feel?” she asked after takeoff.
He sat across from her. He averted his eyes from his laptop and regarded her. She had been fumbling with her cell phone and now drummed her fingers on her lap. “Not much different than before. You?”
“Same. I guess marrying in Vegas isn’t all that’s cracked up to be.”
“Since this will probably be my only marriage, I think it did its job,” he said dryly. Another plus for this scheme: he could say he’d tried. His parents always told him he should find the right woman and make a commitment. He could buy a few years after the divorce to keep from any meddling. He’d say he was still heartbroken and eventually they’d stop trying to get him hitched.
She upped her eyebrow. “You’re very pragmatic.”
“Thank you.” He returned his attention to his laptop. His fingers flew on the keyboard as he typed an important email.
“What do you mean, you won’t get married for real?” she asked. “Like, ever?”
“Probably not. You?” he answered without taking his gaze from the screen.
“I want to. I mean, I was engaged once,” she said, an edge of uncertainty in her voice.
