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Or was it just the craziness of the moment?
We’d had a wild ride here, and it wasn’t over yet. I knew we were both buzzing with adrenaline—it was the only thing keeping me upright and ithadto be affecting him too.
My adrenaline rush, combined with the magic of his touch, had my heart pumping and sending hope zinging through my bloodstream.
The Grinch broke into our moment with, “I have another wedding scheduled in ten minutes.”
Even though it was nuts, I couldn’t help but think that this would be a pretty epic story to tell our grandkids…
Digger nodded. “We’re heading out.”
We didn’t—we stayed in place.
Our gazes tangled. Our bodies remained closely tucked together. Our hearts thumped so heavily that I could feel his against my chest and I knew he’d feel mine too.
The Grinch cleared his throat.
Still, we stared at each other, and it was like that first day in Westchester.
When he’d seen me. Not my school uniform. Me. Before anything else had gotten in the way.
Wouldn’t it be hilarious if something came from this?
If something impossible morphed into being out of a desperate situation and chance?
His thumb rubbed along my chin. I had a little divot there, and it seemed to settle in the nook as he tipped my head back farther and pressed the softest of breath-stealing kisses to my lips.
“My heart hasn’t grown three sizes, you know? Can we hurry things along?” was the Grinch’s grumble which was followed by a coughing fit that told me louder than words that the man had a nicotine addiction.
Not the most romantic soundtrack, but damn, I’d take it.
“We should go,” I whispered, staring into his eyes like they held the answers to all the known problems in the universe.
“We should, Mrs. Dane,” he confirmed, gently squeezing my fingers as he spoke.
God, I was married.
Married.
To a man I didn’t know, but I’d always expected that. I just hadn’t expected to have a choice on who that stranger would be, or for him to be my first-ever crush…
17
DIGGER
I pickedone of the hotels on the strip that didn’t have stupid posters plastered to it but that I knew would have luxury suites—the Gallinaro.
Fake marriage or not, a woman like Mary Catherine deserved somewhere swanky for her wedding night. Not that five stars were out of the ordinary for her.
She didn’t coo at the room like other women might have.
A clubwhore would have run squealing around the place as if she were on speed, trying every seat, cleaning the mini fridge out.
Mary Catherine just sighed like she’d finally come home.
“The bathroom is over here and there’s the—”
I tuned out our butler and told MaryCat, “Go and take a bath.”
