Page 37 of Beauty and the Beach
“Closer,” the photographer calls, and I inch forward. She waves her hand for me to keep going; I grit my teeth and take another step. It’s only when I feel the heat of Holland’s bare back seeping through my shirt that the photographer deems us close enough.
It’stooclose. I can smell the hairspray in her loose curls and the faint sweet peppermint of whatever soap orperfume she always uses; I can feel her curves pressed up against me.
“Now wrap your arms around her waist, husband,” the photographer says, “and then wife, you’re going to hold your hands over his.”
I comply, moving my arms mechanically around her, and just as stiffly, Holland rests her hands over mine.
“You better not take any liberties,” she mutters over her shoulder, and I scoff.
“Did I or did I not tell you that I’m not interested in anything you have?” I say in a low voice, so the photographer won’t hear.
“You did,” Holland says, “but I look hot in this dress, Canary, and we’re getting very cozy here.” Her hands over mine soften, and I startle when I feel her tracing slow, lazy patterns over my skin. “So make sure nothing distracts you,” she goes on. She pinches the back of my hand suddenly, and I hiss.
I free my pinched hand and angle my body slightly, leaning my head closer to speak in her ear. “Don’t start games like this,” I breathe—and then, finally, I give in to the impulse that’s been riding me for the last hour. I lift my hand and slowly, carefully, touch one finger to the back of her neck; when she doesn’t stop me, I trail that finger down, down, down her spine. “Because you won’t win,darling wife.”
Her breath hitches at the words, and they surprise me too.
“Tilt your body just a bit, groom, and bride, give me a nice smile. Then groom, you’re going to lean forward and give her a sweet kiss on the cheek,” the photographer calls, blissfully unaware of our heated conversation. I let my hand fall away from the base of Holland’s spine and then wrap my arm around her waist again.
“You’re the mud caked beneath the hooves of a warthog,” Holland murmurs through a blinding smile.
I curl my fingers around her wrist until they find her pulse. “And your heart is beating too fast,” I breathe against her skin as I lean forward and touch my lips to her cheek.
Her hand twitches, and I laugh softly.
“Gorgeous!” the photographer calls as her camera erupts in a flurry of clicks and snaps. “Perfect! You guys are thecutest—these are going to turn out so good. A few more, just a few more and then—” She breaks off, glancing at her watch. “And then it looks like we’re done for this session, but honestly, please book me again any time, because you guys are totally smokin’.” She brings the camera back up to her face. “Okay, one last kiss to her cheek, groom, good, good, and…that’s a wrap!”
We separate so immediately that the photographer looks startled; she glances back and forth between us for a second and then laughs. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know it’s hard to stand in the same position for a long time. But I got some great photos!”
“Thank you,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice pleasant. “I’ll look forward to seeing what you’ve got.” Then, once she’s busy gathering her photography gear, I turn to Holland. “We’re going to obtain a marriage license now, once you’ve changed back into your street clothes. After that you’re free to go home.”
I don’t seeor hear from Holland for the rest of the weekend; not even when I text her and tell her that half a dozen new outfits chosen by Wyatt are in the mail to her, allof them clothes my family should approve of. Normally that’s something she would respond to, but all I get is silence.
She’s ignoring me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have touched her like that.
When I text her Sunday night to tell her we need to meet at Town Hall to get married Tuesday morning at nine, she doesn’t say anything either. It’s only when I tell her to answer me or I’ll drag her there myself that I hear back—a single thumbs up.
The day of our wedding dawns bright and early, and the weather is mockingly perfect. There’s a pleasant breeze that will heat up as the sun climbs higher, which would probably render my all-black ensemble too warm, but we should be done before the hottest part of the day arrives.
I reach the steps of Town Hall at nine on the dot, Wyatt by my side. Holland isn’t here yet, as far as I can see, but that’s not surprising. Given her radio silence, I can assume she’s still not thrilled about our arrangement.
She can feel how she wants,I tell myself, straightening my tie out of habit more than need.No one made her sign the contract.
When she arrives five minutes later, she’s coming from the direction of the town square; something anxious and queasy bubbles in my stomach, because there’s no way she didn’t draw attention on her way.
She’s dressed in all black. Black, long-sleeved shirt despite the summertime; long, black skirt; I even see black tennis shoes peeking out as she walks. She looks like a wraith. Even her long, blonde ponytail seems more subdued than normal, hanging solemnly instead of swinging this way and that.
Her shuffling steps bring her closer and closer until finally she stops in front of me, and I raise one eyebrow.
“All black, I see.”
“I’m in mourning,” she says flatly. She jerks her chin at my clothes. “You did the same.”
“Yes,” I say, irritated. “Because I look excellent in black. Not because I believe my life is ending.” My jaw clenches without my permission; I force myself to relax. “And what about the dark circles?” I say, pointing to the shadows beneath her eyes. “Are those for mourning too?”
She doesn’t respond; she just glares.
