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Soon enough, her body relaxes into mine and the satisfaction of knowing that she’s feeling better inflates my chest, making it easier to breathe.
When my gaze lifts, I find the crowd parting to let a couple pass through.
A tall, lithe woman in a mid-length red dress. The man, shorter than her, but with broad shoulders and a salt and pepper beard. They are a striking couple.
Without a word, the woman embraces Emma. Up close, the similarities between Emma and this woman are obvious. They share the same silky brown hair, though this woman’s is shorter than Emma’s, and with more layers, the same eyes and heart-shaped face. They could be sisters, but I know Emma is an only child, so she must be Emma’s mom. And that would make this man…
Before I can say anything, he grips my hand tightly, using leverage to pull me down toward his face.
“You’re not a father yet, or maybe you are, I know absolutely nothing about you…but if you don’t have children, you can’t understand how a man feels about meeting the man who married his daughter for the first timeaftertheir wedding.”
While his grip is tight, it’s nothing I can’t handle, but I don’t want to insult him anymore than he already believes I have, so I pull my features tight, hoping it gives the illusion of pain.
He’s right, I’m not a father, but raising Sophie has given me enough perspective to know that if she showed up married to some random guy, I’d feel the same way. I’d be hurt. Wondering what I’d done wrong to be excluded from such an important part of her life. I want to reassure him it isn’t what he thinks—a secret whirlwind relationship punctuated by a quickie marriage. That even though getting married was a mistake, I do care about Emma. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.
“I—” I begin, but he silences me with a squeeze.
“I’m a professional photographer. I find people’s angles for a living. If you have one, I’m going to find it.” His voice goes even lower. “And everybody has an angle.”
With my lack of relationships, I’ve never had to meet a woman’s parents before. Never been set up to be judged if I was worthy of someone’s daughter. The feeling is new and even knowing I’m here to pretend, so is the desire to pass the test. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter if Emma’s parents like me, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to try.
“Understood, sir.” I nod, deciding this isn’t the moment to try to build trust with Emma’s dad. Trust that will ultimately be broken when we part ways. The thought makes my chest feel hollow. In Emma’s Vegas hotel room, the idea of coming here to pretend we’re together was an abstract idea. Now standing in front of Emma’s parents, family and friends, I’m realizing this will be a more difficult task than I thought.
“Dad,” Emma admonishes, placing her hands over our joined ones. His grip slowly loosens until I can pull my hand back. “Griffin, this is my dad, Philip, and my mom, Jolyn.”
“Griffin, so nice to meet you.” Emma’s mom embraces me. I’m waiting for a whispered threat, a mother’s vow to seek revenge on the man who deprived her of mother/daughter wedding errands, but it doesn’t come. Clearly, she’s taking the news easier than Philip. “Welcome to our home.” Jolyn motions around us. The crowd of fifty-plus has dispersed to give us a moment, but is still milling about, sipping on champagne, while cater waiters pass hors d’oeuvres.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling slightly more at ease with Jolyn’s kindness.
“What is happening here?” Emma whispers to her parents.
“Your father and I felt bad that we missed your birthday and your fashion show, which I know you told us a million times it was okay we didn’t come, so we planned a birthday gathering for your return and under the circumstances, it is now doubling as a wedding shower.”
She motions to a table in the foyer that is overflowing with gifts.
“I don’t think we’re up for this. We just got off the plane. We’re not dressed for a party.” Emma motions to our clothes.
“You both look great,” her mom counters, raising a hand to flag down one of the waiters. “Let’s get you something to drink.”
Emma pinches my elbow between her fingers. When my eyes meet hers, she’s giving me some sort of eyelash batting morse code distress signal.
“Um, maybe we should freshen up,” I suggest.
My effort to escape is shut down just as quick.
“Later.” Jolyn smiles as a waiter appears beside us. She moves to hand both of us a glass of champagne, only pulling Emma’s back at the last second. “Wait, are you pregnant?”
“Jesus, Mom!” Emma’s mouth gapes open in horror. She looks around to see if anyone’s attention is on us, then whispers, “No.”
“What?” Jolyn asks innocently. “It would explain the elopement. And it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?”
I can see the twinkle in Jolyn’s eyes, the vision of grandbabies dancing in her head.
“I’m not pregnant.” Emma’s face flushes. She doesn’t meet my eyes. Not only did we just meet, but we’ve yet to consummate our marriage. Another image of Emma on the bed, her thighs spread open, her pussy slick and swollen, waiting for my tongue. Fuck. I’m going to need to figure out how to keep that image from popping into my head every five seconds whenever Emma is next to me.
Jolyn hands her the champagne glass, then motions us toward the windows on the far side of the living room. “Your father and I would like to make a toast.”
“Give us just a minute.” Emma skirts past a group of guests to pull me into a quiet space off the living area where she promptly tosses back her entire champagne flute.
