He huffs. “Tell me again how your mother reacted?”
“I handled her,” I say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Pissed and hurt with a generous sprinkling of judgmental.” I understand she feels hurt and left out, but for some reason she got bent out of shape over me marrying a Callaway. I don’t know what her problem is with this family, and I don’t care. She gets no say in how I live my romantic life—because as far as she knows, thisismy romantic life.
“Pissed and hurt comes from the heart, and judgmental can come from being a mother, I suppose,” Noah volunteers, and my anger at my mom vanishes with his words. “What I’m worried about is greed. Most people will do way worse things to protect their wallets than their hearts.”
“We’re talking about Gail?”
“Yes.”
What could she possibly do? She doesn’t even live in Emerald Creek. “What did Lane say about us getting married?” I’m more concerned about her. Will she be angry at us? At me? She was a cool kid. I’d like to stay friends with her.
Noah raises his eyebrows. “None of those little shits answered my messages,” he says as a huge grin spreads on his face. “They might be planning a prank.”
But it doesn’t seem that they did. As we pull into Emerald Creek, it’s already night and the mansion is dark. We enter through the kitchen door and Noah shouts, “Anybody home?”
But only the grandfather clock answers us, and we make it upstairs.
“So this is the bridal suite,” I chirp, sounding way more happy-go-lucky than I feel. And the minute I walk in, I can tell Noah has no idea what to do now.
eleven
Noah
This whole getting married is messing with me. I thought it was just going to be a transaction. It’s so much more than that.
It’s Willow’s underwear in my dresser, her dresses next to my jeans, our toothbrushes in the same glass. “If we’re going to make this look real,” she whispers to me as we’re unpacking in my bedroom, “we have to do it right.”
Later that night, our first in Emerald Creek, it’s sleeping on a too-small couch and having to argue withmy wifeabout it. “I fit right on it. Look,” she says, nudging herself on my pillow, under the blanket, showing me how her feet don’t stick out because she likes to sleep in a fetal position.
“Absolutely not,” I growl. Usually that tone gets me whatever I want in this house. Not this time.
“Make me go,” she says, closing her eyes and crossing her arms.
I’m tired. My nerves are shot.
I have blue balls from the past days in close proximity to Willow’s soft curves and sweet scent and singing voice and overall bubbly personality that is such a contrast to my own at times it feels like I am drowning in her—and the last thing I want, is to come up for air.
I pick her up, which makes her shriek in the most feminine way while bringing her whole body right against mine, her hair tickling my face, her feet kicking the air, pink toes dancing up and down, the full underside of her breast against my chest. I drop her on the bed, letting her bounce up and down, because if I’m going to let her go easy I might end up… not letting her go at all.
She shrieks again, then laughs out loud.
“Gross!” my sister shouts from across the hallway.
Willow rounds her eyes, whispers, “When did she get home?” then laughs harder before putting a hand in front of her mouth, hiding under the covers.
I settle myself on the couch and spend all night with the scent of her on my pillowcase and the sound of her breathing shooting straight to my dick.
I don’t get any sleep.
“I slept like a baby,” Willow declares the next morning as she stretches in bed, dark hair splayed on my pillow, small hands grabbing onto the headboard, full breasts pushing up. “Is that coffee?” she asks in disbelief, her sleepy eyes narrowing on the mug I just set on the nightstand.
Her tongue darts out from between her puffy lips.
I turn my back to her, pulling the drapes open. “Rise and shine.”
