I couldn’t take my eyes away from her.
I was conscious of the assistant handing her a bouquet of more white flowers and tucking one into my lapel, but none of it was as fascinating as the way Birdie’s hair blew in the breeze like a banner. Was that color even human? It was incandescent, and it seemed to set up a corresponding burning within my chest.
I didn’t even notice the photographer snapping pictures around us. I held her hands, and she held mine, and our eyes never left each other.
This was something new. This was something I’d never felt before. When she repeated the vows, I watched her lips. I wanted to kiss her again. I wanted it desperately. When I slid the classic gold wedding band onto her finger, I lifted her hand up to my lips and kissed her fingers.
She blushed and ducked her head, but when she put her ring on my hand, she brought my hand up to her face, pressing her alabaster cheek into my palm.
The minister said those words I’d been waiting for, and I took her into my arms and kissed her until even the beauty of the island faded away. All that was real was her, and me, and the places where we connected.
Then we were married. I wasn’t sure how it all happened, although I knew all the steps.
There were only a handful of people there—the reverend, the photographer, the driver. They applauded, and we kissed again, the camera snapping away. I signed the register, and Birdie looked at me, a wide smile on her face as if she was truly happy.
“Your name is Paul?”
“Technically, yes. My name is Paul William Jeffries. I decided to go by William to honor my father, who died when my brother and I were three.”
Her face softened. “Oh, that’s actually really sweet. You were never supposed to be sweet, Wills. You were supposed to be a tough, emotionless womanizer.”
“Who said I was that?”
“Everyone, lovemuffin.”
I scowled at her. “Don’t call me that.”
“Okay, Willsy Wills.” That wasn’t my name, either—William or Will—but she leaned up into me and kissed me.
“Okay, baby,” I said with my own silly grin as she broke the kiss to sign her name, too.
The photographer wanted to get some more photos. He had us go up higher on the peak and pose.
“Ugh,” she said, leaning into my ear. “I told you I’m not an actress. This feels so false.”
“Don’t think about it. Just be yourself. Hey.” I took her hand and the other on my shoulder. “Dance with me. Do you know how to waltz?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, I do. My mother demanded it. Dance with me, wife.”
“Wife,” she repeated and giggled, and I spun her around to an imagined tune. I loved to see her happy. I wanted her to be happy. “Look at us, climbing mountains, dancing on hills.” She threw back her head and laughed.
I danced her around, the enormous view echoing the enormous step in life we were taking. This was only the beginning. I ended the dance in a deep dip and took her mouth in a kiss. She was mine. She was my wife.
When I finally pulled her up again, she set her palm to my cheek. “My how handsome you are,” she said quietly. “I’d better be careful around you. I’m not sure I’ll have any defenses.”
I didn’t want her to have defenses against me. I wanted her to be mine. Then I remembered that she wasn’t mine, not really. This was just a business arrangement. Nothing more. We were partners in a fake marriage.
The magic drained out of the day.
The clicking of the camera stopped. “That’s it. That’s great,” the photographer said. “I think I have all I need.”
The next day, we were back in NYC.
It reminded me that it wasn’t a real marriage, we weren’t really deeply in love, and it was a fake elopement, all for photo ops and image redemption. There was no honeymoon. I had needed to come into work because of an important meeting, but Bernadette had been unable to sleep on the plane coming home, so she was trying to make up for her lost sleep in my guestroom.
It wasn’t a real marriage, and the strange feelings that had swelled in me with all the fake romance of our trip were exactly that—fake.
Suzanne found me. I didn’t have time for her because I had just five minutes between meetings, but she was a persistent person. She slipped past my secretary and found her way into my office.
“You’re going to have to sleep with her, you know,” she said, blunt as always, half con artist, half businesswoman.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes. Stop pretending that this isn’t a real marriage. It’s real, and you can’t afford to get caught cheating on her, not if you want to redeem your reputation. It has to be seen as a love match, and it has to be pure. But we all know your history with women. You can’t be celibate. There’s only one choice. Sleep with your wife.”
“It’s not a real marriage.”
“Your marriage license says otherwise.”
“We’re partners. It’s a business arrangement. I’m not going to sleep with her. That would…confuse things.”
“You like her, and she’s beautiful. In fact, she’s your type. You love redheads. I’m sure it would be no hardship to sleep with her.”
“It would be no hardship at all. She’s stunning.” She was so stunning, I could think about nothing else but her. “But she’s someone I am building a relationship with that is about more than just sex, and I don’t want to turn her into only a careless lay.”
“That is ridiculous, Will. Sex does not equal just a lay. Sex can be a bonding experience. It can actually make you closer. Haven’t you ever cared for a woman you’ve had sex with?”
“Of course I have.” I felt insulted now. “I’ve liked all the women I’ve been with. I wouldn’t be with them if I didn’t. But the sex was just for fun, and it always…ruined things.”
“That wasn’t because you had sex with them, Will.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Then why were things always ruined when we had sex?”
“Because you’re afraid of commitment.”
I blinked. Commitment.
“Yes. You’re afraid of commitment. But that’s not an issue here because you’re already committed. You don’t have to worry about her asking for too much because, well, you’ve already given it to her. So now you can have sex with her and make it an actual marriage. Because like I told you, it is a real marriage. It’s not fake just because we arranged it. So what if you’re not in love? That doesn’t mean it can’t be real. You like her. That’s enough to start with.”
“Yes, I do like her. I like her very much. I respect her, too. That means I’m not going to screw her like she is some tart who doesn’t matter.”
“Woah. Who said you should do that? She’s your wife. It’s part of marriage.”
“Not our marriage.”
Someone knocked on my office door.
Before I could kick Suzanne out, she narrowed her eyes at me. “It’s not part of your marriage…so far. My suggestion is to make it part of your marriage. It will simplify everything.” Then she spun on her heel and left my office as my secretary brought in my next appointment.