Irresponsible Puckboy (Puckboys #2)(6)

Dex isn’t the marrying kind. End of story. It’s no secret his parents’ divorce was messy and every divorce his mom went through after that. It’s obvious both he and Phoebe were affected by it. They’re not against commitment, just promising to love and obey until they die.

Beside me, Dex’s knee bounces.

Yeah, he’s definitely not the marrying kind.

When the bride and groom are told they can kiss, their guests break out into applause, but Dex turns to me.

“I have an idea.”

“Uh-oh.”

I don’t know what I’m expecting him to say—that we blow off golf and party with these lovely white trashy people, that he’s realized he could never marry Jessica; hell, it could even be that he’s quitting hockey to become a minister, for all I know—but what does come out of his mouth is so out of left field, I can’t be sure I hear it correctly.

“We should get married.”





Three





DEX





Tripp doesn’t immediately respond, and I worry I’ve broken him. He’s just … staring. A lot. I wriggle my fingers in front of his face.

“Did you hear me?”

“Did I?” He finally unfreezes and rubs his jaw. “I thought I heard something about marriage, but that can’t be right.”

I lower my voice so we don’t interrupt the people up front. “Come on, it’s the perfect idea.”

“Perfect?”

“Yes. Remember how pathetic I was at scoring from the left side of the net? How did I get over that? We practiced. This will be just like that.”

His whole face contorts. “This is … nothing like that.”

I try my best for the puppy dog eyes that have never failed me before. He immediately covers them.

“Nuh-uh. Not the face.”

“What face?”

“You know what face.” Slowly, he removes his hand, revealing his expression that I think is supposed to be exasperated but doesn’t hide his urge to smile. “Dex, are you following what’s happening here?”

“Yes.” Dumbass Dexter might be an accurate nickname from the media that I don’t let get to me, but while I might be a bit clueless, I can follow a perfectly reasonable conversation. “I’m asking you to help me like you did then.”

“No. You’re asking me to marry you.”

“Pretend to marry me.”

“You do know that weddings in Las Vegas are legal, right?”

I brush his concern away. “We’ll get up there and do the big fancy thing, confess our undying love for each other, and then walk away. If we don’t take the paperwork and file it at the county clerk’s office, then we’re not actually married.”

Tripp’s face pulls into a frown. “That’s true …”

“And it’s not like it will be hard to fake it. I mean, if those two”—I gesture to where they’re signing their paperwork—“can convince people they mean forever, we’ll have no issues.”

We both look toward the front. The couple is borderline trashy, sure, but aww, they’re so in love. He’s looking at her like she’s a cinnamon roll, and … it makes me sorta uncomfortable. I’ve never been looked at like that.

Which is fine, because not all relationships can be the same, but it would be nice for someone to see me in that way. That, despite my faults and my habit of saying dumb shit without thinking it through, someone could love me so strongly it’s obvious to everyone around us just by the way they look at me.

I lean toward Tripp. “Think we can sneak out without them noticing?”

“I wish. But you got us into this mess, and I’m not disappointing this guy on his wedding day.”

“Aw, you’re such a softie. Photos, then bail?” I turn to him only to find him already watching me. He looks especially freckly today, which might have to do with the lighting in here. It makes his pale skin stand out against the reddish-brown flecks.

“Sounds good.”

“And then wedding later?” I grin angelically, and Tripp starts to laugh.

“Fine. Yes. You can have your fake wedding. I swear you’re like a dog with a bone.”

I slump into the seat. “I don’t want to be alone forever, and if that means tying my life to someone else’s, I’m going to need to find a way to do it.”

Tripp’s quiet for a moment, and it’s just as the couple up front are done signing and officially pronounced married that he nudges my side. “You’ll always have me. I don’t even need the piece of paper.”

That makes me warm inside. “What about a ring?”

“The only ring I need is the one that says Stanley Cup Champions on it.”

“A-fucking-men.”

Tripp and I stick around for some photos and to sign the groom’s shirt and the bride’s wedding dress. Then we make excuses to leave.

We’ve barely hit the foyer before I make a beeline for the woman behind the desk.

“Umm, hey. Can we get married?”

“Of course. Did you have a particular date in mind?”

“Yeah. Today.”

She turns from her computer to fix me with a look. “We’re an official wedding venue, sir. We don’t do … those kinds.”