Four Day Fling(39)

“This is the longest wedding I’ve ever been to,” I said into his chest.

He chuckled, his whole body shaking. “Have you ever been to a wedding?”

“Only as a reception guest. Otherwise, no.” I turned my face to the side, resting my cheek against him. “Have you?”

“Yes. And you are correct. This is the longest wedding I’ve ever been to,” he replied. “Although that might have been your grandfather.”

I groaned, wrapping my arms around his waist. It was all for show for my family, but I wasn’t going to deny that being wrapped around him koala bear style wasn’t nice.

“He’s unreal,” I said. “I told you. He’s insane. He thinks everyone wants to know about his life. Be thankful you didn’t hear about his pensioner swing parties.”

“What?”

“Oh, yeah. After my grandma died, he was lonely, so joined a bingo club. Turned out bingo was a front for old-people swingers.”

“That’s…interesting.”

“Mhmm. Keep holding onto me. It’ll stop anyone else talking to me, okay?”

He tightened his arms around me, bringing his lips to the top of my head. “Duly noted. Your mother is looking at us.”

“Of course, she is. She’s imagining our wedding right now,” I scoffed.

“So, a time where Bloody Marys aren’t on the menu for your grandpa.”

“Exactly that. And my mom doesn’t get to choose cocktails. And nobody knows who you are or any embarrassing stories about my childhood, of which there are plenty.”

“We’re eloping then,” Adam said.

“Absolutely. If we ever get fake married, eloping is the only way to do it.” I pulled back and tilted my head to meet his eyes. “How else will we be able to convince everyone we actually did it?”

He laughed, dropping his forehead to mine. “Well, there is that. Eloping sounds good. Where would we go? Vegas? That Gretna place in Scotland?”

“I do like Scotland. They don’t wear underpants under their kilts.”

“Oooh.” He blew out a long breath. “I don’t know if I could do that, Red.”

“We can negotiate. How do you feel about going pantless under a kilt when we’re married?”

“Are you also commando?”

“Only after the wedding. You can’t pick and choose, hockey boy. That’s not how this works.”

He mock-sighed, his entire body moving with the exhale. “I suppose we can make that work.”

“I like when you agree with me. It makes the vodka I snuck at the table a lot more reasonable.”

Leaning back, he met my eyes. “You were drinking up there?”

“Did you hear my mother’s speech?”

“I did. I didn’t see you drinking.”

I tutted him. “Vodka. Water. And a lemon. A la Rihanna.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I tucked myself back into his body. “I needed it to stay sane. I need another. Are you finally understanding my family?”

Adam stroked my lower back with his fingertips. “Slowly. Your aunt Jean asked me if I was into older women, and if I change my mind, to call her.”

“Sounds like her.”

“Then, your uncle Peter asked me if the Storms would win against this season, and apparently, “I hope so, sir,” wasn’t the answer he wanted.”

“He’s a gambler. You should have given him your guess for a team.”

“My guess is the Storms. I’m in the team.”

“That’s cocky.”

“I know. He didn’t accept that answer either.”

I laughed, moving to his side. I didn’t release his shirt, keeping my fingers tucked into it as much as I could. He never loosened his grip on me, holding me firmly against his side.

I hated how normal it felt to be against him. Hated how good it felt to have him by my side, holding me, tucking me into his body.

It wasn’t supposed to feel anything close to this good.

“Wanna sit?” he asked into my ear.

I nodded, allowing him to pull me over to the closest empty table. He pulled my chair out for me. I sat, and the second he brought his chair to mine, his arm was around me against.

I leaned into him. He didn’t seem to mind at all. His fingers drew lazy circles on my bare upper arm, while his other hand sat happily on the table until he had to motion for a server to come over to get us a drink.

I didn’t say a word as he ordered me a vodka cranberry and him a beer. I had drunk enough water today that it didn’t make much of a difference, and I’d been to enough family gatherings like this to know that it was a necessity.

Dad slid into the chair next to me. “Save me, Pop,” he said without looking at me.

“Am I fucking Batwoman today or something?” I asked him.

“No, honey, but my flask is out of whiskey,” he replied.

I tapped my fingers against the table. “How big is it?”

He showed me a baby-sized one.

“I’ll fill it if you bring a bigger one tomorrow. I’ve already done Grandpa duty once.”

Dad made a face. “My poor girl. All right. You slip me a whiskey, and I’ll slip you one tomorrow after your speech.”