“Now, Bridger Adams.” She crosses her arms. Like what I’m saying is absurd. “You’ve already done so much more for me than slay dragons. You secured my dad’s entire future.”
“We did that,” I say. “Together.”
“Uh-uh. Nope.” She closes the space between us, her chin tilted up. Insistent. “Havenwood never would’ve happened without you.”
“Yeah, well.” I duck my head. “My pleasure.”
Her mouth slopes sideways. “If you ask me, that’swayhotter than Leonardo DiCaprio.”
I huff a laugh. “I’ll take it.”
Her eyes drift to mine. “Take this,” she says. And before I can brace myself, she goes up on her toes and drops a soft kiss on my chin, marking me in ways she probably doesn’t intend. Then again, there are no camera apps in sight.
Interesting.
For a moment, I hold my breath while she peers at me from under her lashes.
“And on that note,” she begins and my pulse picks up, “I need tacos so badly, I’m not even going to change first.”
“Right. Tacos. Yes. Good.”
Also, don’t ever change.
Please.
My hand flexes as she floats past me toward the hall. And I watch her go, taking my whole heart with her.
Chapter Eighteen
Loren
You know what’s not the least bit wedding-night sexy?
The selfies Bridger and I took tonight, a full fourteen hours after my most recent shower. And as a reminder, during those fourteen hours, I got married on a farm, had a cake fight in a theater, then stuffed a stupid number of tacos al pastor down my throat.
The pictures will, however, look authentic for Margaret Adams, which is the whole point, really. We captured Bridger wiping sauce off my mouth. Me spilling lettuce on the marble countertop. And the moment he snagged a blob of cheese headed for my dress.
Yes, my brand-new mother-in-law will be getting a glimpse of the real me, even if the marriage isn’t genuine. Mission accomplished, so far.
Which is why, a half hour later, after toweling off from a long, hot (very necessary) bath, I breathe a sigh of relief before sinking into a pair of my soft, well-washed cotton pajamas.The baby blue set isn’t the least bit wedding-night sexy either, but I feel at home in my familiar buttoned top and drawstring bottoms.
And again, the goal here is authenticity.
Bridger would be a gentleman no matter what I came out wearing, I’m sure of this. Still, his mom won’t want to see me sporting a lacy negligee in the pictures we stage tomorrow morning.
I can just imagine the pictures.
Bridger wiping powdered donut off my chin. Me spilling coffee on the marble countertop. And the moment he inevitably snags a blob of jelly headed for my pajamas. Clearing a circle in the steam-filled mirror now, I check my reflection, just to be sure there aren’t any remnants of sliced pork in my teeth.
The gold-framed mirror in the primary suite is roughly the size of a Jumbotron. By comparison, I look tiny, with red hair dripping down my shoulders, my blue eyes red-rimmed and flagging. But the truth is, I’m not that small.
What Iamis totally unequal to the task of being Mrs. Bridger Jefferson Adams.
Still, that’s the job I signed up for, and I have to be convincing as his beloved wife. Otherwise, good old Margaret Adams, the trustee, could make things difficult for my husband.
Speaking of which.
Bridger and I are supposed to meet in the library for one last round of pictures before bed. Sayla’s going to have her work cut out for her, editing all this footage into usable clips. But that's the jobshesigned up for. So I pad down the stairs, my feet stuffed into warm, fuzzy socks with tiny hearts on them. I adore these socks. When they finally get holes in the toes, I’ll be sad. But for now, I press a smile on my face and prepare for more selfies.