Actually, you don’t do impulsive shit, period.
I can’t deny this is, hands down, the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done in my life. My brothers would certainly lose their fucking minds if they were here to witness it.
But they’re not here, and according to Ty’s last update, they’re at some bar with beer pong tables and cocktail waitresses that make Hooters’ tight outfits look prim and proper. I know this because he sent me a photo of an oblivious and blindfolded Jude, smiling toward the camera, while two of the scantily clad cocktail waitresses stood beside him.
Jude would be at risk for a fucking stroke if he found out you were getting married before him…
I almost start to marinate in that thought and allow the reality to sink in, but the doors to the chapel swing open so dramatically they hit the wall with a shocking bang. Instantly, a very broad-shouldered man wearing a white halter top dress and a face full of show makeup steps into the space.
“Oh my God,” Daisy whispers, her voice rising at the very end to an almost silent shriek. “Is that…uh…Marilyn Monroe?”
I almost snort, but in deference to her obvious freak-out, I don’t. One thing is for sure, though, that is most certainly not Marilyn Monroe. But it’s a pretty damn good showing by a man trying to look like her, I have to admit.
“Daisy Diaz and Flynn Winslow?” Fake Marilyn calls out with a movie-star smile and flutter of eyelashes, and Daisy’s hand shoots out and grabs me by the forearm, her fingernails digging into my skin, even through the material of my tux jacket.
“Us? Already?” Her eyebrows practically shoot up past her hairline. “But you just handed in the clipboard, like, a second ago. What kind of operation are they running here?”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Seems like a quick one.”
Daisy’s glare is pointed and strong and oh-so amusing.
“Ready?” I ask with a simplicity the two of us know isn’t all that simple.
She takes a moment of consideration, but it’s not more than a few seconds before she’s nodding and taking me by the arm to lead us toward Marilyn. “That’s us.”
“Great,” Marilyn coos, shooting us a wink before waving a hand and escorting us through the doors to the chapel. “Let’s do it.”
The door bobs and bounces against itself as I reach out to catch it without pushing through. Instead, I turn to Daisy with a raise of my eyebrows. You sure about this?
Her words are a declaration—and the first step in a whole new part of our lives. “Let’s do it.”
For better or for worse and until Daisy gets a green card, Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, here we come.
Daisy
Flynn tosses the keys to his motorcycle into the bowl beside the door and walks down the hall, leaving me to follow. I watch silently as he puts down the duffel bag from his bike that houses our normal clothes and then works off the tie at his neck. His strong shoulders work to take off his tuxedo jacket, and I bite my lip to stop my mouth’s nervous quiver when he reaches back to ruffle the hair at the back of his head with long, tanned fingers.
And I thought he looked good in leather. This sophisticated tux look takes Flynn Winslow’s hotness to a whole new level. It’s almost a shame it’s a rental that will have to be returned.
You do realize that this marriage is fake, right? You’re not going to, like, move in with him and pop out 2.5 kids…
His house is dark, but lights set to motion sensors illuminate each space as we move through it. First, down a long, large, high-ceilinged hallway, and then through a living room with modern, dark-green velvet sofas, and finally into a huge kitchen, set against a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and a terracescape in the backyard. Even outside, lights begin to dot the hillside as Flynn walks in front of the windows.
Wow. This place is… Well, it’s not my dinky apartment in LA, that’s for sure. It’s a place for someone with money.
The silence, for the first time all night, is heavy. It’s laden with things unsaid—things I’m afraid to say—and even as I chip away at the block with my mental ice pick, I’m having the damnedest time trying to find some words to say.
I mean…what do you say in this situation? When you find yourself at the remote house of your new husband, about whom you know next to nothing?
“Do you…do you have a shirt I could sleep in, maybe?”
Oh God. I’m pretty sure that’s not it.
Under normal circumstances, with the men of my past, I might actually have the opportunity to be embarrassed. To wonder what he’s thinking as he stares at me in sheer disbelief. But not with Flynn. No. He turns without a word and walks down the hall. And, yeah, it’s things like that that let me know how wrong I am every time I try to convince myself that anything about what I’ve just done is normal.