The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(12)

“You don’t even really speak.”

He shrugs. “You talk enough for the both of us.”

That’s…well, that’s true. Especially right now, in the midst of my freak-out. But should I really make the completely insane, rash, life-altering decision to get married while I’m this mentally unstable? I don’t even know anything about this man! Nothing. Zilch. Zero.

“I don’t even know your last name.”

“And?” He smirks. “You worried it’s not going to go with Daisy or something?”

“You want to make a marriage pact with me, a woman you don’t know anything about? I’m starting to think I’m having a stroke or I’ve suffered some serious accident and I’m actually in a coma.” I laugh. Almost hysterically, really. I am one of the hyenas from The Lion King, and I can’t seem to stop it. “We just…we can’t…”

He raises his eyebrows and takes a drink of water before standing up from his stool and holding out a hand.

“Flynn. This is crazy.”

But just crazy enough to get you a green card…

I stare into his magnificent eyes and try to find a shred of doubt or worry in them that matches the absolute scrambled-egg feeling going on in my insides, but try as I might, I can’t see anything in there but steadiness.

My hand, shocking me to my core, doesn’t even shake as I slide it into the hollow of his. As his fingers close around mine, so does the reality of the impending domino effect my lapsed work visa will create.

Awesome job? Done for.

All my goals and hopes and dreams? Poof. Gone.

I take a deep breath. “And what are the terms of this marriage…well, fake marriage pact? You marry me so I can get a green card? And that’s it, no strings attached?”

He nods. “Pretty much.”

“This really is crazy.” I giggle through a shaky smile. But also, I can’t bring myself to do anything but accept the life vest he’s just tossed into my ocean of chaos. “Okay, yeah, count me in.”

“Winslow,” he says, and I quirk a brow. “My last name.”

Winslow. Flynn Winslow, I silently recite his name. Welp, at least it actually goes with Daisy and doesn’t put you in a Julia Gulia situation…

“Right. Next stop…Mr. and Mrs. Winslow.”





Flynn

Neon lights that read Happy Chapel flash obnoxiously in front of us, and I pull my bike to a stop in a small parking lot just off the main drag of the Strip. Just as I push my foot against the kickstand, I cut the engine and plunge us into pseudosilence. It’s not quiet—not with the buzz of the Vegas nightlife so close by—but without the sound of the engine rumbling in my chest, it’s damn near tranquil.

Daisy’s arms don’t loosen like I expect them to, so I prompt her with a couple generous words I’d usually not bother with.

“We’re here.”

I feel the edge of her chin in my back as she nods against it, but still, the hold of her grip doesn’t loosen.

Rather than rush her, I put the weight of my bike onto the kickstand and wait. Red neon lights outline the chapel’s big sign, and a pair of kissing doves are painted on the side of the white brick.

Given our proximity to the desert, the spring night is more balmy than cool, but I swear I feel a shiver run up my clinging companion’s spine.

It’s only afterward that her iron grip softens, and one of her toned legs makes a move to step down onto her sky-high heels.

I stay still, acting as a steady brace as she finds her feet off a leaning bike, and climb off only when she backs away several steps and wraps her arms around herself.

Her curls poke out from the bottom of my helmet, and I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning as I take a couple steps toward her and help her remove it.

“Oh,” she says through a laugh as the padding scrapes over her ears on the helmet’s way off her head. “Right. I’m supposed to take that off, I guess.”

She’s nervous, obviously, but after living with my sister Winnie for as many years as I did, I’m not sure there’d ever be a woman who wasn’t when in this scenario.

And most men would be, too.

I set my helmet on the bike and lock the ignition, and then I head for the door, placing a hand on the small of her back and gently guiding her along with me as I go.

She moves freely and with ease, but her eyes are the size of very pretty saucers.

A happy, laughing, clearly drunk couple stumbles out through the doors ahead of us, and I sidestep, taking Daisy with me to keep them from barreling into us.

Daisy watches them with avid interest, and I have to squeeze the side of her hip to get her to precede me when I hold the door open.

Steps careful, she eases her way into the entry of the chapel, where red carpet, disco lights, busts of naked women, and dozens of bouquets of flowers await. This place certainly lives up to the Vegas wedding scene that most people picture. The front desk isn’t occupied by any other couples, so we’re able to step right up to it, and to the waiting man behind it.

“Welcome to the Happy Chapel!” he greets cheerfully, leaning into the plexiglass top with his elbows. “What can we help you with tonight?”

Daisy’s body locks, her muscles turning to stone and her eyes rivaling those of a cartoon. She looks like the lead character in a Disney movie, her wild curls dancing in the breeze of the air conditioning and tickling at her face.