Don't Kiss the Bride

“And that’s why I only want people to know who need to know. I don’t need people judging me.”

“I got you, boo. No worries.” She looks over at my hands. “I like your color better. Why did you let me do electric blue?”

I picked a pretty autumn, coral-ish color. She chose a fluorescent blue.

“Like you would’ve listened to me?” I tease.

She laughs. “You know me so well. I guess I’ll deal with it. I’m too lazy to do it all over.”

When we’re done with our nails, we clean everything up and sit on my floor, gossiping about our favorite reality TV shows. I have to admit I’ve become addicted to the drama of them. Especially the relationship ones.

“Do you want to see the pictures from the ceremony?” I ask, after debating it in my head for at least ten minutes. We’ve just had a huge discussion about Married at First Sight and how awkward it must be to marry a stranger, so it seems fitting for me to show her.

“You have pictures, and you haven’t shown me yet?” she says. “Are we even best friends?”

Laughing, I grab my cell phone and bring up the first photo of Jude and me standing next to each other. I edited all the photos last night, and now they look really pretty and dreamy.

“Aw, look how cute you look!” Megan says. “That skirt is the bomb!”

“Thanks.” I flip to the next photo, and she grabs the phone out of my hand, zooming the photos with her fingers.

“Wait… are you two kissing?”

“It was just a quick peck. The officiant asked us to. She doesn’t know the deets, so we did it just to make sure we looked legit.”

“Um, it looks very legit. And look at your sexy foot up in those heels, girl!”

“I’m never wearing those again. I almost broke my neck.”

“That hand on your cheek, though. Dammmmm. Those tattoos. Fuckity fuck. My ovaries are exploding.”

“Right?” I say, taking the phone back to look at them again for the fiftieth time. Carol caught us in some perfect moments over several photos. Jude and I staring into each other’s eyes. Our lips touching. His thumb across my cheek.

Gah. We do look like real newlyweds. In that moment, I felt like one. Pictures can be so deceptive.

Damn that whole kiss the bride thing! It’s opened up a pandora’s box.

“You look stunning,” Megan comments. “I’m not surprised he couldn’t keep his hands off you.”

“His hands were not on me.”

“I’m going to try to talk Erik into getting some tattoos after graduation. That shit is sexy as hell.”

Agreed. Jude has totally turned me on to tats. Like Megan, I’d love to date a guy who had a few.

“You think you’ll still be together then?” I ask.

Her smile fades, and her eyes narrow at me. I wish I hadn’t said that. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“You’ve never dated anyone longer than three months. I didn’t think you wanted something serious?”

“I literally just told you a few minutes ago I love him.”

“I know, I just didn’t realize you meant love love. Like, long-term love.”

“Duh. What other kind of love is there?”

Lots, actually. But, we’re just high school girls. Do either of us know what love love really is?

Chapter 18

Jude

“How was your ride? Swallow any bugs?” Skylar asks when she steps out of her car and walks up the driveway. I just got home myself after finally having a Saturday free to take off on my Harley for the day. She watches me as I open the garage door and push my motorcycle inside.

“It was good. No bugs flew into my mouth this time. How was work?”

“Busy,” she replies. “I’m not used to working Saturdays.”

I pull my T-shirt off and use it to wipe the sweat off my forehead and face. I catch the way her lips part slightly as her eyes zoom in on my chest, then flicker down to my abs. I’m just as guilty. My own gaze has been pulled like a magnet to her bare stomach, exposed by a thin, white blouse knotted just above her belly button—and the thin silver ring looping through the delicate flesh. The sun glints off a turquoise gem—the same color as her eyes—dangling from the belly button piercing.

Fuck. She could easily be a fashion model. Endless tousled blonde hair, long, tan legs, flat stomach, pink, pouty lips shiny with gloss, torn jeans, and cowboy boots. Those ocean eyes—always a myriad of emotion—dazzling one minute, soulful the next. And damn, that fucking smile. My favorite curve.

I tear my eyes away when I remember this perfection is all wrapped up in an eighteen-year-old girl.

This chick will undo me.

“It was hot as shit out there today,” I say, emptying my saddlebags.

She runs her fingers over the airbrushed wolf’s head design on the gas tank, then slides them down over the worn seat. Her palm flattens over the leather as if she’s caressing it. Unfamiliar jealousy burns through me, wishing that touch was for me.