Submitting in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 3)

I do trust Rafe, I don’t consider him a weak or thoughtless man, but Laurel was the first time I saw a glimpse of him trapped inside an unwanted relationship, and I’m terrified that’s going to be me. Looking past Rafe fucking around with random women prior to our relationship was one thing, but what do I do if he tries it now? He won’t break my heart by accident; he’ll do it on purpose to punish me for the crime of perceived disloyalty.

A stream of words spew forth from the officiant’s mouth, but all I can focus on is the memory of Laurel in the booth with Rafe, his arm around her, snuggling h

er, and then Marlena approaching and the look on Laurel’s face. I can’t stop putting myself in that booth, putting rings on our fingers, imagining the worst.

Sin saved Laurel from a miserable future with Rafe, but there’s no one to save me.

I may be standing here woodenly repeating vows as I’m expected to, but I don’t mean them, and he won’t either. It’s hard to imagine marriage being the thing that destroys love, but I’m deeply afraid it will the spell the end of my love for Rafe.

Even as thoughts of his potential to betray me run through my mind, his rich voice rings out, clearly promising not to. I swallow and look down at my shaking hand as he brings the ring closer. He grabs my hand to steady it before sliding the golden band over my knuckle and into place, signifying our commitment to one another, for better or worse.

I tune back in as the officiant says, “You may kiss the bride.”

A rakish smirk steals across Rafe’s face, a light shining in his eyes, both possessive and playful. My heart does a somersault, momentarily recognizing the Rafe I actually do love, and relief flutters through me if only for a moment, because that’s the Rafe who wraps his strong arm around my waist, tugs me close, and brushes his lips against mine.

I’m still faintly trembling with nerves, but he’s strong and sure, so I wrap my arms around his perfect neck, close my eyes, and kiss him back like a real bride.

It’s the only moment of this farce of a wedding that feels remotely real, so I hold on tightly, afraid of what happens when I let go.

37

Virginia

Sitting in Rafe’s car outside of Giordano’s pizza place, my groom glances over and tells me, “When I said you could pick where we had dinner, this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

I shrug my shoulders, looking at the hole in the wall pizza place. “It’s what I wanted. He sauces his pizzas perfectly. Is pizza not an adequate wedding night meal for you?” I question, looking back at Rafe.

He looks at the restaurant one more time, then shrugs. “All right.”

Rafe pulls the latch and lets himself out. He’s already on his way over to open my door, but I go ahead and do it myself. Still, he offers me his hand and helps me out.

“Shane brought all my things over today,” I remark, since Rafe will be welcomed by a disorganized foyer when we get back to his house.

Our house? That’s going to be weird.

“I know,” Rafe replies, taking a few steps ahead of me and opening the door.

“Do I still have an apartment?” I inquire, stepping inside.

“No. You’re my wife now, you live with me.”

“I bet that’s weird to say.”

Rafe cracks a smile, but his focus is on his surroundings, not on me. “Right? Never planned to be a husband or father, and now here I stand with a ring on my finger and a son across town. Life is weird.” He misses a beat, glancing around the restaurant. “Looks like business must have picked up. The place looks better than it used to.”

“He’s been paying you, hasn’t he?” I murmur, keeping my tone low, since there is a man standing at the counter, waiting for his pizza.

Rafe glances over at me, cocking an eyebrow. “Should you know that?”

I offer a faint smile. “That’s why I signed my life away today, right? Because I know too many things?”

Rafe doesn’t comment, just looks back at the new menu board.

Even though I didn’t get anything out of it and I have no stake in this shop’s success (beyond wanting them to stay open, because good lord, can this man make pizza), I feel a sense of pride looking around the little pizzeria. I didn’t have the budget to make enormous changes, but when Giordano was struggling to stay open (let alone pay Rafe the money he apparently owed him), I stepped in and volunteered my time and talents to help him out.

I may not know how to run a pizzeria, but I’ve learned plenty about how to run a restaurant from working in food service. Marketing wasn’t my forte, but I did some research, staged a few Instagram photo shoots with local Insta-famous babes enjoying pizza at the Las Vegas “hidden gem” pizzeria, and did a little advertising to make locals aware the place exists.

I also spruced it up a bit. It’s a hole in the wall and I can’t do anything about that, but rather than fight the small Italian pizzeria vibe, I embraced it. Giordano doesn’t care about style, he only cares about making good pizza. I came through and cleaned the place until every surface sparkled, took down his god-awful menu board and replaced it with a chic chalkboard menu, put Italian-style red and white checkered table cloths on the scratched up old tables, and ordered some Tuscan-style vinyl lettering for the front windows and door. There’s also old school Las Vegas Rat Pack music playing now to set the mood, whereas before all you could hear was the buzzing of the god-awful fluorescent lights that used to hang overhead.