Sin City Wedding

He glanced over at her. She watched him with wide eyes that were full of confusion and possibly hope. She touched her lips gingerly.

"I'm not going to apologize," he said.

"Good. I'm not either."

He'd forgotten how sensual she was. Forgotten that night in Atlanta when he'd discovered that her passion for books and words extended to him as well. "I figured total lust would make better headlines than being in love."

"Good idea."

She gathered up her purse and unfastened her seat belt, preparing to stand. He put his hand on her arm, holding her in her seat.

"Aren't you ready to get off the plane?"

"No," he said.

She gave him a quizzical look. He gestured to his lap. Her eyes widened.

"I guess I do owe you an apology."

"Not on your life, Larissa."

She got that heavy-lidded look in her eyes and leaned toward him, but he held her back. "I'm an inch away from saying to hell with it and seeing if we can both squeeze in that rest room up there."

"Jake—"

He covered her lips with his fingers. "Not another word."

The last of the passengers filed by and Jake felt better under control. He picked up his briefcase and stood, keeping his hand on Larissa's elbow as they exited the plane.

She tugged her arm out from under his grip and took his hand. She slid her fingers through his. He glanced down at their joined hands and tried to not let it matter. Their holding hands shouldn't mean anything, but it did.

She trusted him. If she didn't want to admit that, it was fine with him. But he knew there was something between them now that hadn't been there before.

Nine

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Larissa smoothed her hands down the sides of her simple wedding gown. She wasn't sure who had arranged for it, but there had been a small fortune in wedding gowns in the suite when Larissa had arrived. Jake had told her to pick one. He'd left her alone in the suite for the past four hours.

The hairdresser, makeup artist and photographer had arrived forty-five minutes ago and now she looked like someone she didn't recognize. Oh, God, what was she doing?

"Can I have a few minutes to myself?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am." All three filed out of the room.

Larissa walked to the mirror staring at the woman there. A woman who was sleek and sophisticated and not at all like the woman Larissa knew herself to be. She looked in the mirror like a woman suitable to be a Danforth wife.

She reached toward her reflection, touching the glass. This wasn't real. This was all pretend. Game face and all that.

But it felt real. It felt like the dreams she'd secretly harbored since she'd given birth to Peter. It's not real, she reminded herself again.

There was a rap on the door and Larissa went to answer it.

"Sorry, ma'am, but it's time to go upstairs for the ceremony."

She nodded. The hairdresser took the veil from her hands and placed it on her head. Tears burned the back of her eyes. She was alone with strangers, people paid to help take care of her because she had no family of her own to help with these moments. No mother to help her with her veil. No sisters to help pick out flowers or choose bridesmaid dresses. Just her. Alone. The way she'd always been.

The chapel was small and intimate. Jake stood at the front, talking to the photographer and Artie O'Neil, the reporter that Nicola had arranged to have write about their wedding.

Larissa tried to smile. Tried to pretend that this was what she wanted. That she was marrying a man who loved her. But she felt sick.

She turned and blindly ran down the hall. She heard voices and someone calling her name, but she didn't stop. She escaped through the fire exit and paused on the stairs.

She leaned back against the wall and wrapped her arms around her waist. She was crying. Crying for things that she'd never had. Crying for the dream that now seemed so childish and ridiculous. Crying for something that she'd never realized she wanted until now.

The door opened and she felt raw, exposed.

"Rissa, what's wrong?" Jake asked softly.

She tried to swallow so she could speak, but she couldn't. She turned her head from him.

He closed the door and walked toward her. She put her hand up. "Don't."

He stopped and she tried to pull herself together. But her mind was filled with pictures of perfect families. The kind of family she'd been trying to create for Peter. What she wanted and what she would have were very different.

"Talk to me, baby. I don't know what you need."

She didn't, either, and that was the problem. How was she going to be able to explain that she wanted something she'd never had? That today, when she was standing at the back of the chapel, she realized she wanted a mother? A real mother who would have noticed her daughter and not stayed mired in her own bitterness.