Page 75 of The Marriage Clause

Damien produces them from his jacket pocket with the smooth disinterest of a man who'd rather be anywhere else—except that his eyes flick briefly, involuntarily, toward where Everly is seated in the front row, clipboard still in her lap even now.

If anyone notices, no one says.

I slide the ring onto Aria's finger. Her hand is cold. I hold it a moment longer than necessary because the warmth of my palm against her frozen fingers feels like something I should be doing. Like the logistics of warming her hand is a problem I'm qualified to solve.

She slides mine on. Her fingers barely brush my knuckle and the sensation travels up the back of my hand like voltage.

"You may kiss the bride."

I've thought about this.

I've thought about this more than I'll ever admit to any living person, including Damien, and especially to any person with the last name, Kauffman.

The plan is simple. A brief press of lips that satisfies the crowd, the cameras, the board, and nothing more. Two seconds. Maybe three if it feels really necessary.

I step forward. My hand comes up to her jaw. I don't decide to do this—my hand decides for me, cupping the side of her face the way I've apparently been rehearsing in some locked room of my subconscious for days.

Her breath catches the moment I dip down–our lips less than an inch apart. I feel it against my mouth, and then I do.

I press my lips to hers and whatever plan I had dies on contact.

Her lips are soft in a way that has no business existing in the same world as boardrooms and trust clauses and dead fathers who write cruelty into legal documents. Her mouth opens—barely. It’s just a fraction but it changes everything.

My other hand finds the curve of her waist. No longer holding to the rigid performance I had calculated this would be. I do everything I can to keep my hands steady. To keep myself from pulling her tighter against me to feel her body against mine like I did in front of the steps of the Hawkeyes building eleven days ago.

She comes closer. Or I've failed and I’ve pulled her. Neither event matters because it’s happening either way.

Someone in the crowd makes a sound—like a whistle and then the crowd erupts with applause, laughter and cheering. The sound is what finally breaks the kiss. Because now I’m reminded that we have three hundred people staring at us right now, and what I want to do next with my bride is not for an audience.

I pull back.

Not far. Just enough to see her face.

Her eyelashes flutter back open, her eyes glazed and her lips are still parted. Her hand is fisted in the lapel of my jacket and she doesn't seem to know it's there.

"What was that?" she breathes.

I have no response.

The officiant says something I don't hear. People stand. Flowers are thrown. And then I remember that I'm supposed to turn, to walk back down the aisle, to perform the next piece of choreography.

Instead, I'm standing at the altar holding a woman's face in my hands and trying to remember what language I speak.

Damien's hand lands on my shoulder again. Firmer this time.

"Walk," he says in my ear. "Now. Before you do something the board can't unsee."

So I let go of her face, reach for her hand and lead her down the aisle, trying to figure out how the hell ten seconds changes everything.

*

The reception tent is enormous. It’s white, draped, lit by a thousand small lights that Everly called "strategic ambiance" when the contracting event company came out to put it all up and I asked if this was necessary. It turns out that was a stupid question because she shooed me off the premises after that.

The dinner is coursed. The wine is French. The cigars were brought in from somewhere illegal that Wes wouldn’t reveal. The guests are behaving, mostly, because three hundred people who run in the same circles know the rules for events of this caliber with the press walking about armed with cameras, and ready for someone to make a fool of themselves.

Damien stands to give his toast and the tent goes quiet.

He buttons his jacket and picks up his glass.