His eyes narrow and he draws even closer. “I don’t believe you for one goddamn second.”
I casually shrug. “Believe it or not, but she’s my wife. Everything about our union was intentional—well, besides our outfits. She wanted to dress up; I didn’t think it was necessary . . . now that I think about it, I probably should’ve stopped at that dress store with her.” I pull on the back of my neck. “It’s okay, when we have a ceremony for our friends and family, she’ll get to wear whatever she wants.”
Pa studies me, his eyes furious, the tension in his arms stiff and unmoving. “Then where is she?”
“With her friends,” I say, speaking the truth. “They wanted a little more time together and I had to get back early to prepare for class tomorrow. We’re celebrating when she gets home later tonight.”
Hopefully she gets home tonight.
Hell, where even is home for her?
Silence falls between us as Pa takes another step closer. Even though I have two inches on him, I feel like he’s staring down at me instead of the other way around as he says, “I don’t believe a goddamn word of this, BUT, because I enjoy watching you squirm, I’m going to give you three months.”
“Three months? To do what?” I ask.
“Three months until your family-and-friends wedding.”
“What?” I ask, feeling as if the ground is about to drop out from under me.
“If this woman is really the love of your life and this abomination called a marriage is real, then I would be more than thrilled to throw you a wedding, in England, for everyone to celebrate. I’ll have your mother start planning now. And if you don’t show up, if this wife of yours doesn’t show up, then you can be damn well sure that I’ll make sure your foundation no longer exists.” He smirks and then pats me on the shoulder. “Congrats, son, I look forward to the impending nuptials.” He starts to walk away, but quickly looks back at me and says, “Oh, and if you don’t go through with the England wedding, and you still want to keep your precious foundation, then the wedding your mother plans? It’ll be for you and Iris.”
And then he takes off, a grin gracing his lips, all too pleased with himself.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
He’s trying to call my bluff because that’s the kind of man he is, never trusting. He doesn’t believe me for a second, and given my track record, I wouldn’t believe me either. He’s right about me. So goddamn right.
Just another screwup.
Another reason why I’m not good enough to be a part of the family, something that’s been drilled into me from an early age.
The only thing I’ve ever gotten right in life is Rabid Readers and to hell if I’m going to let that crumble.
Turning in the opposite direction from my pa, I head toward my gate, and pull out my mobile. That’s when I’m reminded of the text from a random number. I open it up and read it before calling Killian.
Cora: Hey, husband, it’s me. Your snookum darling pie. We’re married! AHHH. Here’s my number so you can text me sweet nothings. Oh, and I stuck the key to my apartment in your pocket. My address is below. Can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you!
I read her address and then step off to the side, where I set everything down and open my suitcase. I grab my jeans from last night and search the pockets, and luckily enough, there is a key in them.
And just like that, a plan is born.
I zip up my suitcase and text her back.
Pike: Good morning, wife. About to board my plane back to Chicago. After I arrive, I’m going to pack some things and then head to our place. See you at home . . . snookums.
Once that’s settled, I dial Killian. He answers on the first ring.
“What the fuck is going on?” I don’t blame him for his frantic voice or the harsh tone. I would be just as concerned as he was if roles were reversed.
“I got it handled.”
“Do you? Because from here, it seems as if you have nothing handled and that you’re crashing and burning. You got married in Vegas, for fuck’s sake.”
“Deep breaths, Kill. Deep breaths and listen to my plan . . .”
Chapter Six
CORA
“What do you mean you married Pike Greyson?” Stella shouts. “Like . . . you actually married him?”
I grip my forehead and slouch in my seat.
Oh God. This is bad.
This is really, really bad.
How could I have let this happen—wait, I know how this happened.