The horizon in front of her is a stunning wall of brilliant pinks and oranges. And when a breeze picks up her veil, streaks of light filter through the fabric.
You could put a hundred floors between us, and I’d still be in trouble.
I clear my throat, and Loren spins around.
A bright smile breaks across her face.
Even without the tacos, she appears to have gotten some energy back. I can only imagine she’s relieved to be done pretending for Sayla’s pictures and video.
I run a hand over my head, chuckling. “Well, you look … happy.”
“Are you kidding?” Her eyes widen. “I’ve never been inside a place this big. Dex is right. Your houseisa castle.”
“It’sourhouse. Our home, I mean. And I’m glad you like it.”
“Like it? Are you kidding? This place is so incredible, I’m a little … out of my depth.” She gives her head a shake. “There’s no way I belong here, but I’m willing to try, if that will help your mom believe we’re a real couple.” Her laughter rolls through me, even as my stomach clenches. “So how’s this?” She leans out over the railing and shouts, “I’m the queen of the world!”
My guts lurch. “Come back inside.”
She peeks over her shoulder, cheeks pink. “Not until Leonardo DiCaprio materializes behind me to hold out my arms.”
I grit my teeth. “Please.”
“Awwww.” She lifts a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Leo.”
“I’m not.”
“Good. Because first of all, he isnotthat hot. And second, I’m pretty sure at twenty-nine years old, I’ve aged out of his preferred dating age range.”
“Step away from the edge,” I say. “You’re very close.”
“What are you talking about?” She chuckles. “I’m perfectly safe. I’d have to fling myself over this wall and?—”
“Stop!”
She freezes, then curiosity slides across her face. “Bridger Adams. Are you … afraid of heights?”
“Maybe. A little,” I grunt.
She moves off the balcony immediately. “I’m so sorry. I was just kidding around. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
My jaw tightens. “I know it’s irrational, scientifically, and all. That’s why it’s categorized as a phobia.”
She tips her head. “We’ve been friends for years. How did I not know this about you?”
“I don’t go around telling everyone,” he says. “Acrophobia—even a mild case—isn’t exactly the manliest trait.”
“I wouldn’t care,” she says softly. “Idon'tcare.”
Of course she doesn’t. Because I’m not her man.
Not for real.
“Either way,” she continues, “we’ve been marriedallday. You definitely should’ve told me by now.” Her lips quirk, keeping us solidly in friends-teasing-friends mode. “And for the record, I think mild acro-whatever-you-called-it is kind of … cute.”
Cute. Not exactly manly either.
“Acrophobia,” I repeat. “And forgive me for clinging to the fantasy that I’m the kind of husband who’d slay dragons and fight demons for his wife. Not someone who’s afraid to look out a third-story window.”