The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

Daisy glances over her shoulder at me, and I offer an amused raise of my eyebrows. This guy is really something. When she turns back toward the desk, I don’t miss the longing way she looks up at the display of cakes and bouquets above the man’s head. Eventually, though, she replies, “I guess just the quicky will be fine.”

That look of hers is the same one I saw cross her face after we left the Clark County Marriage License Bureau and she spotted a small shop with tuxedos and dresses.

It’s also the reason my attire tonight transformed from jeans and a T-shirt to full-on black tuxedo.

“You don’t want to hear about the dicky?” The man behind the desk questions with a quirk of his brow.

“Um, no,” Daisy says through a giggle, glancing back at me.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, looking me up and down. “It’s very sexual, and the tension between Mr. Tall, Dark, and Silent back there and you is pretty thick.”

I also want to laugh at his absurdity, but I step into the fray and place a soft hand on Daisy’s back that nearly makes her jerk several joints out of their sockets trying to contort to see it.

“Actually, we’ll take the one with the flowers and the cake.”

Daisy’s big green eyes meet mine. “What?”

“A wedding, any wedding,” I tell her, “has flowers and some cake.” When she doesn’t respond, I pointedly touch the lapels of my black tuxedo and then smile at the formfitting cream silk dress she’s been wearing since she tried it on at the rental shop.

We’ve dressed the part, Daisy. It wouldn’t feel right not to include the cake and flowers, too.

She nods then, studying me closely, and a tiny, breathtaking smile lights her up from her smiling mouth to her now sparkling eyes.

“Okay, then,” front desk man chirps, spinning in a circle and grabbing some forms from a tray. “Just fill these puppies in with the important information, and I’ll get it all typed up and ready to go.” He leans forward and points to the papers. “See here? This is the section where you pick the flowers and cake flavor, okay? They’re all labeled up there.”

“Great,” Daisy replies, taking the forms from his hands, placing them on one of the waiting clipboards from the counter, and grabbing a pen to fill everything out. I follow her to the other side of the room as she takes a seat in a chair and starts writing. I shamelessly watch over her shoulder.

Daisy Marie Diaz. Twenty-nine years old. Birthday December 25.

“Christmas baby, huh?”

She laughs a little. “So the city of Vancouver tells me.”

The city of Vancouver tells her? Not her parents? Interesting.

Done with her information, she offers the clipboard to me, where I quickly scribble down my information. It’s nothing too thorough—just very basic information and a home address.

When I’m done, I get up and walk the clipboard back over to the counter, carefully checking the sheet to see which bouquet she’s selected.

Number 2A.

Big, bright Gerbera daisies all packed together in an overcrowded cluster. Very interesting. I really thought she’d go for one of the more refined sets of delicate whites and pinks, but then again, I’m finding that this woman never hesitates to surprise me.

Settling the clipboard onto the desk, I turn and head back in her direction, where she’s no longer sitting in the chairs in which I left her. Instead, she’s up and moving.

She waves frantic hands at her face, the crimson red wave of her anxiety cascading off her cheeks and down the line of her neck, and I step back as her red-tipped fingers swing out and almost hit me in the face.

“Okay. Okay,” she repeats to herself, spinning in the world’s tiniest circle. “Everything is fine. This is no big deal. People do crazy things like this all the time for far less rational reasons, and I’m just…taking care of business. Handling my shit. Making life my bitch. I can do this.”

I step back and out of the way as she does some sort of power-skip, half-jump thing and lands on her toes. My eyebrows lift slightly, but I don’t say anything else. I’m not even sure there’s anything that can be said to calm her down at this point.

That’s not entirely true. You could tell her she doesn’t have to do this. That life happens for reasons, and maybe it’ll turn out to be a good thing that her visa expired. My stomach flips in protest, and I shake my head slightly to clear it. No, we’re doing the right thing. Saving her career. Her future. It’s not a big deal.

I’m a practical guy, rationality and logic always the foundation for my decisions. A guy like me doesn’t do impulsive shit unless it serves an actual purpose. And this, obviously, serves a very important purpose.