“Good to know we’re on our honeymoon. Apparently I missed something.”
My head jerked back and my brow furrowed. “Uh, what?”
“Oh, so you didn’t know either? Go check the bedroom. I’ll wait here.”
I made my way to the bedroom and stopped short when I finally found it. What . . . in the actual f**k? On the bed were rose petals in the shape of a massive heart, and above the heart, spelled out in Hershey’s Kisses, were two words. Just. Married. Um. What?
There was a letter lying on the rose petals, as if Rachel hadn’t bothered to fold it back up, and I grabbed at it.
Mr. and Mrs. Logan Hendricks,
We are pleased you have chosen The Vineyard at Florence as your honeymoon destination and hope you enjoy your stay here. In the kitchen you will find vouchers for free brunch every day of your stay, as well as complimentary chocolate-dipped strawberries in the refrigerator and some of our finest wine.
Congratulations on your recent nuptials.
Sincerely,
The staff of The Vineyard at Florence
One, I was going to kill Mason after I shook his hand for somehow pulling this off. Two, I really hoped Rachel wasn’t freaking out over this. At the moment, I couldn’t remember what she’d looked like when she told me about this; had she been mad or scared? Three . . . I placed my thumb over the name Hendricks and swallowed hard. I let the image of the girl I’d left in the kitchen be forefront in my mind and pictured the surname Ryan instead. My heart started racing as I imagined it all.
Rachel in a white dress, her blue eyes and beautiful smile directed at me as we exchanged vows. Rachel with my parents and Mason’s family. Us at the beach in Florida. Rachel’s stomach round with my hands pressed softly against it.
I let my focus come back to the bedroom of the villa and blew out a hard breath. It didn’t matter that I’d only known her a little over two months. I’d known that first day that she was a game changer, and I was sure now that I couldn’t live without her. I wanted to marry her; I wanted everything I’d just envisioned. And I wanted it now.
Letting the letter drop back onto the rose heart, I walked through the house to find Rachel shutting the pantry door; she’d put away all the food while I’d been in there. With a secretive smile, she nodded her head in the direction of the refrigerator and my body relaxed when I caught the brightness in her eyes again. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t scared about what any of that meant; she wasn’t accusing me of anything even though she couldn’t have known that it was all Mason. I opened the door to the fridge and right in the middle was a tray of huge chocolate-covered strawberries, just as the letter had said. And off on a side counter were the wines.
Without a word, I grabbed Rachel’s hand and towed her back outside. She laughed and tugged against me, but I wasn’t letting her win this one.
“Kash, what? Did you forget stuff in the truck?”
“Nope.” I stopped suddenly, whirled around, and knocked her legs out from under her, catching her and cradling her in my arms before she could hit the ground. She gasped and glared at me, but I kissed her soundly to silence any snide remark she could have made. She wasn’t about to ruin this. “I forgot this.” I met her blue death stare and waited for it to soften before speaking again. “Mrs. Hendricks . . .” Wrong name. Wrong. Name. “Isn’t it tradition to carry your new bride across the threshold?”
Her head tilted back and she laughed. “Isn’t it tradition for the bride to be aware that she got married?”
I paused with one foot in the villa and one out. “You’re ruining it, woman,” I growled.
“Well, husband”—her laugh died down and she ran her hand down the side of my face to my neck—“we should probably continue with tradition and consummate the marriage.”
Kissing her lips once, I left my mouth hovering over hers as I took the last step into the villa. “Let’s get to it, wife.”
I didn’t miss her near-silent inhale on the last word or the way her blue eyes had taken on a darkness I’d never seen before. And I wondered if she was seeing a future similar to the one I’d been seeing in the bedroom.
“I LOVE YOUR tattoos,” she whispered softly, and I cracked open my eyes to watch as hers followed her trailing finger on my arm.
“Do you?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I grinned and helped her by turning my arm when she reached where it rested against the bed. “Who’s the liar now?” When her brow scrunched together, I continued. “I seem to remember you telling me you hated them, along with my lip ring . . . my hair . . .”
Her soft laugh filled the room and I tried to commit the sound to memory. “I was lying.”
“Exactly, so who’s the liar now?”
She shrugged with the shoulder that wasn’t against the mattress. “But those were forgiving lies.”
“What lies?”
“Forgiving lies, the only kind I’ll tell.” Forgetting her study of my arm, she crawled up the bed and rested her head on the pillow next to mine so our noses were almost touching. “You know, like white lies.”
I pulled her closer and let the tips of my fingers trail up and down her bare spine. “So why not just call them white lies?”
“Because they’re usually lies you tell people to protect them or be polite . . . right?” I just raised an eyebrow as confirmation and she smoothed it out. “It’s like you telling me I looked beautiful when I was sick, or how I had to keep telling Candice I was fine when I wasn’t, and acting like I wasn’t upset with her even though I was. And with you? You and I both knew I was lying anyway . . . so they’re lies. But they’re the kind of lies that people forgive and forget about because they’re so minor. But when people tell harmful lies, or ones that can shatter trusts, and the other person finds out about them . . . they always say what they did was unforgivable. So if lies that can hurt people are unforgivable, then why can’t the ones that are meant to be polite be forgiving lies?”