The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(62)

Pat, one. Marriage of convenience, zero.

Jo runs to us—to me—and without hesitation, I lift her up on my shoulders. Her skinny legs hang down my chest and her small hands tug on my hair. A little hard, if I’m being honest, but right now, she could make me bald and I’d be okay.

The celebration is cut short when Judge Judie brings out the gavel again, shouting, “Clear out! I’ve got another case coming in. Justice waits for no man!”

I take Lindy’s hand, feeling my mom’s ring there, and with Jo still on my shoulders, the three of us lead the way out of the courtroom. We are married! Lindy is my wife! And maybe it’s the opposite of the typical order, but now it’s time to woo her.

Not even a scowl from the man in handcuffs being led into the courtroom can dampen my mood.





Chapter Nineteen





Lindy





I very firmly told everyone in my life today was Not A Big Deal. With capital letters and everything. It’s not supposed to be like this, I think, watching from a back booth at Mari’s. So celebratory. So … happy.

I mean, technically, yes—weddings are supposed to be happy. The happiest day of your life, if we're getting technical. I wrote a post once on the best and worst days of your life, ranked in order. Your wedding day was right at the top, followed by having a baby.

But my marriage to Pat isn’t real. I mean, on paper it is, and that’s the only place it counts, where the courts can examine the document and somehow think I’m a more suitable guardian for Jo. Ridiculous.

Everywhere else, though, it’s not supposed to be REAL. Which is why I’m sitting here, wishing our friends and family got the memo that we don’t really need all the pomp and circumstance. We can all resume our normal Tuesday afternoon activities instead of all this dancing and drinking and laughing.

Wow, I sound like a real Grinch. A total buzzkill. I make the man yelling at kids to get off his lawn look like a cruise director.

Go join them, the feral cat is insisting. You know you want to.

I most certainly do not! I cross my arms as though to prove the point to myself, scanning the crowd of dancers like a true wallflower.

Sheeters decided to call truce on the whole hating the Grahams just for today. Terrifying Eula Martin actually smiled while dancing with Pat, who has shed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and looks way too good. Collin is trying to keep up with Lynn Louise, who can really cut a rug. While I’m watching, she pulls a tissue from her coif to dab her forehead, then tucks it back in her hair.

Tank has one of Jo’s hands and Ashlee has the other. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Jo happier. Tank keeps sneaking admiring glances at Ashlee, a goofy smile on his face. I swear, he about fell over when he realized my lawyer is none other than Belle the supermodel. Apparently, he’s a big fan.

Harper and Chase slow dance in a corner, despite the fast-paced music. Dale couldn’t take off work mid-week, so Winnie and Val are shimmying in the midst of some friends of the Grahams. I met them all earlier, but it was a blur. Much like the whole day, which had the quality of a damaged video playing at varying speeds—some moments stretching long and slow like taffy and others only a blip. I’m left caught between an adrenaline high and a dizzying overwhelm.

My eyes skim back over to Pat like they can’t help themselves. I’m blaming the kiss. Over the years, I hadn’t forgotten Pat’s skillful mouth and the raw power of our physical chemistry. But remembering and experiencing are two different things.

It wasn’t a long kiss. Mouths stayed closed. And yet my skin flushes even now just thinking about the brush of his lips. My breath hitches as one corner of his mouth kicks up into a smile.

I’m going to dream about that kiss. And it will only be repeated in my dreams, because kisses are against the rules. Yes, I made rules. New rules. Because without them, I’m already lost in a sea of Patrick Graham.

Val and Winnie slide into the booth across from me. “Hey, chica! You’re looking entirely too glum for a wedding reception. Especially your wedding reception.”

“It’s not a wedding reception. More like a party to celebrate a legally binding contract.”

Winnie lowers her head to look at me over the top of her glasses. “Sheesh. We should call you Eeyore.”

Big Mo appears at the end of the table, brandishing a tray with slices of tres leches cake, my very favorite. I give him a dirty look, but I’m not a monster. I also take a big piece.

“Thank you,” I mutter as Winnie and Val grab slices of their own.

Mo rumbles out a laugh, beard shaking. “If you’re trying to be thankful, you best mind your tone. And also, congratulations.”

“Thank you.” My tone is mildly better now. Maybe because it’s been softened up by cake.

“I wish you a very long and happy marriage,” Big Mo says, before wiping his hands on his apron and moving on. “Enjoy every day you get.”

Our table is quiet for a moment, and I watch as he passes out cake like he’s the bearded tres leches fairy. His simple words have special meaning. Big Mo came to Sheet Cake after his wife and daughter were killed by a drunk driver. He sold his house, quit his corporate job working for one of the big energy companies, and left Houston. Mari found him at the diner counter one day, red-eyed and limp with grief. She took him in like she had Val and her older sisters, letting him have the upstairs apartment. He’s been here ever since.