A Billionaire for Christmas

Chapter FourteenI’m in the middle of the most delicious dream.

My wedding, the way I imagined it. Not this crazy Vegas adventure. Not my mother’s Krakken version of the big day. Mine. All mine.

In this version of Emma and Jesse’s Christmas Eve Wedding Fantasy everything is dreamy and surreal and no one is stressed or disappointed and nothing goes wrong.

All our family members are there. My parents, my brothers—hell, even my childhood dog is there. And Jesse’s brothers and almost-sister-and-brother-in-laws.

The dress is amazing. A tight, form-fitting mermaid dress that hugs all my curves and makes Jesse look at me hungrily. He’s dressed up like a billionaire bad boy in a black tux, his hair just a little bit disheveled, just enough to look sexy but not unkempt. And his smile—God, his smile as I make my way towards him is something worth memorizing. Something to be treasured. Something I wish I could capture in a bottle and save for a dark day.

I have a long train being held up by little flower-girl Maisy as I walk down the aisle and my dad is beaming at me as he guides me up the steps and hands me off to Jesse at the altar.

My stomach is filled with happy jitters. My heart is beating fast, but it’s not a thump-thump, thump-thump, like the sound effects in a horror movie. It’s like the hoofbeats of a galloping horse on the beach where the surf meets the sand. A powerful but soft beat. A strong but smooth rhythm.

My father kisses me on the cheek as Jesse takes my hand, his eyes locked on mine like there is no one else in this church. No one else even alive on this planet.

We turn to the priest and that jittery feeling inside me subsides. Like all the things that control fear and nervousness decide once and for all that none of that matters anymore.

My love has been found. My heart is whole. My life is complete.

“Dearly beloved,” the priest begins. “We are gathered here today for the shotgun wedding of Emma Dumas and Jesse Boston.”

Wait.

What?

“Is everybody ready?”

I put up a hand. “Hold on.” I look over my shoulder and see my father holding a gun, pointing it directly at Jesse’s back.

He winks at me. “Don’t worry, princess. He’ll make good.”

“What? Dad? What are you doing?”

“Emma?”

I look at Jesse. “What’s going on? I’m not pregnant! This isn’t a shotgun wedding! It’s the dream wedding, remember?”

“Emma?”

“No.” I stomp my foot. And when I look down at it, it’s not my pretty silver heels encrusted with rhinestones, but the freaking white leather pirate boots. “Where did these come from?”

“Emma?”

I whirl around, stare at my family, gaze homing in on Karen. Kraken fuckin’ Karen. Why is she here? “You did this, didn’t you? Why are you here? Why are you trying to ruin my life?”

“Emma?”

“What?”

“Wake up, babe. Someone’s here to talk to us.”

I roll over and groan. “No… I’m in the middle of the best dream.”

“Emma. Babe. One of the Thumbs is here to talk to us.”

My eyes fly open and I sit up.

Well, that’s not quite accurate. One eye seems to be stuck together. I reach up to rub it and realize it’s being held shut by a sticky fake eyelash. But out of the good, all-the-way-open eye, I see a man. “Oh, no.” I flop back down and cover my face with a pillow. “Go away.”

“Emma,” Jesse says, sitting down on the mattress next to me. “Vinnie says we can have a bonus wedding to make up for the ones that went wrong.”

“Nope. Nope. I’m not doing it. The pirate people stole our stuff. We have no clothes, no wallet, no purse, no phones—”

“I’m positive all those things were put away for safekeeping, Miss Dumas,” this Vinnie guy says. “We will make sure your clothes and items are all returned.”

But I’m not done complaining yet. “My feet hurt, this make-up feels like it’s going to take a year to wash off, I don’t have a dress, and… yeah. No. I’m over it.”

“He promises that this one will be perfect, Ems.”

I peek out from under the pillow and see Jesse’s handsome, hopeful face. This makes me weak and I relent. A little.

I throw the pillow off me and sit back up. I look at the man standing in the doorway of the jet bedroom. He’s a tall, slim man with broad shoulders. Youngish. Maybe late thirties. Handsome in a I-work-for-a-guy-called-Fingers kind of way. And wearing a very expensive and tailored—but a little too shiny—gray Italian suit.

I point my finger at him. “They were all supposed to be perfect. At least… they were not all supposed to be complete disasters! What’s it going to be this time? Drive-through wedding chapel? Mmm? And when we get there, they hand us fries and say, ‘Sorry. We’re all out of weddings?’”