Page 14 of Accidentally Marrying the Prisoner
She genuinely looks surprised when she asks, “Why would you want me to go?”
“Because you’re my wife.”
“Fakewife.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We’ve been over this before.” She rolls her eyes. “Plus, my mom knew I’d signed up for the early release marriage program, and she’s expecting to meet you. Also…” I hesitate, feeling immature, but I go ahead and spit out. “My ex-fiancée will be there. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen her since she broke off our engagement, and I’d like an added buffer.”
Mirabeth sits up straighter. “Why would your mom invite your ex?”
My cock flags when I think of Alisa, and I twist my hips to hide it from Mirabeth’s view. “Because she’s married to my older brother.”
Mirabeth lets out a huff of displeasure on my behalf. “Wow. That’s so not cool.”
“Agreed.” With a strange vulnerability and a plea in my voice, I ask, “So, will you go with me?”
“If I don’t pass out thinking about how many strangers will be there, then sure.” She shuts her laptop with asnap, then jumps up to begin sorting through her dresses. Holding up two options with a sly grin, she asks, “Which one would piss off your brother or sister-in-law more?”
I nod to the one on the left, my cock swelling once more. Never did I think I’d like the idea of my partner giving me the choice of what they wear.
“Oh geez, it’s doing that thing again,” Mirabeth says, looking away with crimson cheeks.
“Doing what?”
She hangs up the dress I didn’t pick and gestures a hand toward my lap. “Getting all big and scary again.”
I laugh all the way into the bathroom and through my shower. My ribs ache by the time the laughter subsides, and I’m tugging on my cock all the faster to the thought of Mirabeth in that dress. That’s another thing I haven’t done in five years—laughing until tears well in my eyes—and it’s all thanks to my gorgeous, luck of the draw, legalwife.
I jiggle the car keys in my hand after taking them out of the ignition, parked down the street from my childhood home that faces the baseball field where my siblings and I once spent every waking moment of our free time growing up. Vehicles line both sides of the wide street, while those with big trucks and SUVs have hopped the curb to park on the grass. I slouch in my seat when a few familiar faces stride past on the sidewalk toward Mom’s house.
“Are you ok?” Mirabeth asks from the passenger seat, twisted to the side to stare at me.
I should be the one to ask her that, since the closer we got here, the quieter she became, picking at her cuticles.
“Yeah, just…” I blow out a breath and comb my hair back on my head. “I haven’t seen most of them since I was arrested. I didn’t know there would be this many people.”
She rests her hand on my arm. “We can wait a little longer, if you’re not ready yet.”
I’ve already stalled long enough as it is, having dragged out our time at a clothing store on the way here so I wouldn’t have to wear my old clothes for the second day in a row. If I avoid goinghome any longer, Mom will be disappointed. She was my biggest supporter during my trial and the only one who regularly visited me in prison.
I jump out of the car before I can talk myself into leaving, and hurry to open the door for Mirabeth, giving her my hand to help her out. I don’t give her much room, though, and her body slides up along mine when she stands. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter who the hell has shown up at the party. All that matters is thatshe’shere. A stranger who feels less and less so by the minute.
“Ready?” Mirabeth asks, twisting her hands together, as equally nervous as I am.
It’s nice not to feel so alone, and I set a hand on her hip, scrunching up the slinky material of her light pink dress that’s tight and falls to her ankles, hugging all of her gentle curves. Because of the thin straps that go over her shoulders and crisscross her mostly bare back like a loose corset, she isn’t wearing a bra. I’m second-guessing the choice I made when it came to her dress selection, not only because I don’t want anyone to see how drop-dead sexy she is, but also because my new, correctly fitted blue jeans are starting to feel tight with my rising erection.
“You look beautiful,” I say, as I’ve already done no less than ten times since I got out of the shower and found her dressed.
“You too,” she says with a blush, ducking her head and tugging on the hem of my bright white T-shirt, the toes of her white sandals bumping against my fancy new sneakers. I’ll admit, the sneakers are pretty spiffy, if not pricey, and I promised to pay her back once I talk to my old boss. He had told me I’d be able to start back right where I had left off at work when I got out.
Mirabeth lets me hold her hand when we cross the street, as if we’re a real couple, and I slow my much longer stride so she doesn’t have to jog to keep up. On the porch of the Germanschmear brick rancher built some time in the late eighties, Mirabeth and I both take one last steadying breath before I knock three times as Mom instructed—our signal to let her know I’m here—then push through the freshly painted blue door.
“Welcome home, Conrad!” the crowd screams when I pull Mirabeth inside behind me.
Mom is the first to charge across the seashell-patterned living room rug to throw her arms over my shoulders, rocking me violently from left to right as she begins crying against my chest. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, baby,” she says, hugging my neck tight enough to choke me—longer than the guards ever allowed us to embrace. Such freedom.
I return her fierce hug and pat her back, trying to breathe through her puff of thick red hair in my face. “I saw you two weekends ago.”
“Too long!” she crows, then suddenly steps back, pushing her scalloped, blue eyeglasses up to swipe the tears falling from her kind, light brown eyes. “Now, tell me who this lucky lady is,” she says, taking Mirabeth’s right hand in between both of hers and shaking it vigorously. “My, my, you are beautiful. A little young, though. You’re not an axe murderer, or anything, are you?” Mom asks after I make introductions, and I snort.
