Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(108)

Maybe, in time, I’d get to know the town and its people and not feel like a prisoner.

Today was not that day.

Today was day one of my sentence.

The closer I got to my destination, the faster my heart raced. Parking in one of the few open spaces in front of the Clifton Forge courthouse, I dug through my console for a handful of change to slot into the meter. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used change instead of my credit card to pay for parking.

With it maxed out at two hours—I really hoped this didn’t take that long—I walked up the stairs that led to the red brick building. When I reached the door, my eyes caught sight of a familiar form waiting, and I stuttered a step.

“Hey.” Isaiah pushed off the wall.

“Hi,” I breathed, wiping my sweaty palms on my dress.

He was in a black button-up shirt and a pair of jeans, the same as he’d been in at the garage. They were clean jeans, a bit faded, but they fit him nicely. Still, they were jeans. I wasn’t sure why they bothered me. Maybe I should have just worn jeans too.

“What?” He glanced at himself.

I snapped my eyes away from those long legs, waving it off. “Nothing.”

“You look nice.” He ran a hand over his short brown hair, avoiding my eyes.

“Thanks. So do you.”

His black shirt was buttoned down to his wrists, covering the tattoos on his forearms. The one that ran behind his ear trailed down his neck before it disappeared under his collar. I wasn’t sure if he had any on his back, legs or chest, but each of his fingers had a different design. Ten small tattoos made of lines and dots, all situated across his knuckles.

“Ready?” I asked.

He nodded. “Are you sure about this?”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“No. I guess we don’t.”

Isaiah opened the door for me, but inside, he took the lead, guiding us through the courthouse hallways by the wooden signs hung on the walls. The floors had been freshly polished and the overwhelming smell of lemon filled my nose. We disappeared down a series of turns until we reached the door emblazoned with Clerk of the District Court. Underneath was a judge’s name. Underneath that was Justice of the Peace.

We were here. We were really doing this. I was marrying a stranger today. I was marrying the man who’d saved my life.

Today, I’d return the favor. I’d save his.

Isaiah greeted the clerk at the front desk, speaking for us both because I’d forgotten how to work my tongue. I stood by his side, frozen and dazed, waiting as he filled out the marriage license application. When it was my turn, my hand shook as I filled in the blanks.

“Do you have your IDs?” the clerk asked. She took them both along with the application, then pointed to the row of chairs behind us. “You can have a seat.”

I clenched the arms of the chair as I sat, taking a few long breaths to stop my head from spinning. This was not how I’d imagined getting married. This was not special. I was in a green dress because I didn’t want to wear white when this marriage was a farce. I didn’t know my fiancé’s middle name or how he liked to be kissed. I didn’t know if he drank coffee or what side of the bed he slept on.

My mom wasn’t here to walk me down the aisle.

Blood pumped loud in my ears and the hammering in my chest hurt like crazy. I’d never had an anxiety attack before. Was that what this was? I’d gotten kidnapped just over a week ago and hadn’t flipped out then. If I could survive that experience, then this was a piece of cake.

It’s temporary. It’s only temporary. Eventually, we’d get a divorce and I’d be free to move home to Colorado. A few years here and then I’d get my life back. I could do this for Isaiah.

“We don’t have to do this,” he whispered.

“We do,” I insisted, finding the same determination I’d had when I’d suggested marriage in the first place. “We do.”

“Genevieve . . .” My name sounded so smooth in his deep voice. Each syllable was evenly spaced. He didn’t rush through it like a lot of people did.

I looked up at him, meeting that gorgeous gaze, and my heart softened. Isaiah was a nice man. A good man. He didn’t deserve to suffer because of my mother’s mistakes. “We’re doing this.”

“Isaiah and Genevieve?” The clerk waved us up, sliding a marriage license across the counter. “You’re all set. Just go right through there.”

We followed her finger through a door to our left, finding a man shuffling some papers on his oak desk. His glasses were perched on his nose. His head was bald except for the ring of gray hair that ran from ear to ear.

“The future Mr. and Mrs.”—he scanned a paper on the desk—“Reynolds.”

Mrs. Reynolds. I gulped, then forced a smile. We were supposed to be in love—a couple who’d met and fallen in love on the same day—so I slipped my hand into Isaiah’s, tensing as the heat and callouses from his palm hit mine.

He didn’t flinch but his frame tightened.

“Shall we?” The judge motioned us to the middle of the room. We stood in front of him as he took up his position and gave us both a kind smile. If he could sense our fear, he didn’t comment.

“Do you have rings?”

Panic hit hard. In everything I’d done this past week, I hadn’t thought to get rings. “I, uh—”