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I jerk my eyes up to his when he grabs the paper and spins back around to face me, but he catches me staring at his ass.
There’s a glint of humor in his eyes. It’s unfamiliar, not from him exactly, because I laughed more last night than I think I ever have. It’s foreign because most men scowl at me, or they refuse to even look in my direction after I’ve pulled some stunt.
“I was drunk,” he says.
“Sober enough to sign,” I argue.
“This Judge Andrew Moore can’t possibly be qualified if he lets a drunk man get married.”
“I assure you that my brother is more than qualified to be the county judge,” I snap.
“Y-your brother married us?”
I snap my mouth closed, trying to work through the various scenarios of how this can play out, but, sadly, the only result I can come up with is him calling me crazy and leaving. As often as I’ve had it happen, I’ve never had a legal document in place that made it a little more difficult for a guy to scurry away like I do now.
He repeated more than once that he thought this was crazy, but he never pumped the brakes. Not once did he say no.
I can hear Dr. Miller’s voice in the back of my head about informed consent, but I do exactly what I did last night and I shove it away.
The threat of tears burn inside my nose. I hate that anger and sadness are capable of twisting together so profoundly that I may actually sit here and sob.
I’ve told myself since I was a little girl that all I want is someone to love me. The functioning part of my head knows that’s not going to happen with a stranger I practically tricked into marrying me last night. Happily ever afters don’t happen when you meet a random guy in a bar, but what can happen from all of this is an escape from Lindell.
I think a change of scenery is what’s best for me. Although rejection always stings, it’s not something I’ve been able to get used to.
I pull my eyes from him, trying my best not to cry. The last thing I need is him laughing at me or, worse, growing frustrated and yelling.
“Beth,” he says, a hint of agitation in his voice when the first tear escapes and rolls down my cheek. “There’s a solution to this. Don’t cry.”
I look back at him, hoping to find a glimmer of the man I met last night, who made me follow through with this hair-brained idea in the first place, but instead of the compassion I was hoping to find, all I see is anger.
He breaks our eye contact to once again look down at his hand and the simple gold ring sitting there. His jaw flexes, and I can tell that the man is pissed. Once again, I question everything.
The sex was amazing. The way he held me and urged me to open up, to ask for what I want, gave me a false sense of security. It doesn’t matter how much people talk about Cerberus and the quality of men they are. There can always be a bad one in the bunch.
I dart my eyes to the door, wondering if anyone would help me if I bolt into the hallway, naked in fear. He’s livid. It’s clear as day in his eyes when he looks back up at me.
“The tears won’t work on me, sweetheart. I can’t be manipulated.”
I consider some form of blackmail but immediately shove those thoughts away. What I’ve done is bad enough. Doubling down to get what I want would be despicable, but there’s always that voice in the back of my head that urges me to do more, to take more, to demand that things go my way and to do whatever is necessary to make that happen.
Instead of advancing closer to me, he bends down and scoops up his clothes from the floor before disappearing into the bathroom.
The second tear falls at the sound of the bathroom door closing. Despite his anger, he didn’t slam it shut. He didn’t demand I get dressed and leave, but I know better than to read anything into his lack of commands.
I think what hurts more than anything is the lengthy conversation we had last night about the trouble I’ve had in town. I didn’t tell him my life story, but I explained enough that he understood. He mentioned getting married and showing the entire town that I could find a good man. It was his damn suggestion, and now he’s going to turn it back on me?
I know I’m the one who brought it up again when he asked if I wanted to go back to his room or if I was more comfortable at my own place. When I jokingly said I wouldn’t sleep with him unless we were married, I knew he was a little too drunk to make sound decisions. In my defense, I figured between the drive to the small in-town jewelry store and then out to Andrew’s house, he would’ve sobered up.
