26. Dex

Chapter twenty-six

Dex

T he bones in my right hand may never recover from the vice grip Britta has them in. The closer our compartment gets to the top of the High Roller, the tighter Britta squeezes, and the more my eyes water. Britta's dad is crying too, but for less painful reasons. Maybe he's crying because he thinks I am. Or maybe he's crying about his little girl marrying a guy whose only skill is surfing.

Rhys says some nice things about marriage and finding true love, so the ceremony looks real. Honestly, it feels authentic enough that some of my tears might not be from pain. I hope, though, that Britta's face is white from fear of heights and not fear of what she's getting herself into.

We both benefit from this arrangement, but I'm getting the better end of the deal. Britta is beautiful, smart, and ambitious. She would have figured out how to buy Annie's without me. She could have taken out a loan. I need her heaps more than she needs me.

Rhys perfectly times his speech so that he says the "do you take" part just as we reach the highest point of the ride. The sun turns the bright, gaudy lights of Las Vegas and the brown desert it sprung from into soft hues of golds, yellows, and reds. Britta gasps and loosens her grip on my hand, but I keep hold of hers, like I promised.

We don't have vows to exchange, just rings. Or a ring . I slip her mother's ring on her finger. It fits perfectly, and Britta wipes at her cheek. For a second, I wish this were real, for her sake. Then I realize it is real. Not the madly in-love part, but the marriage part is. We're officially husband and wife. Rhys just announced it.

He follows up with, "You may kiss the bride!"

This is for sure a necessary moment, and since I don't know when I'll have another chance like this, I decide to make the most of it.

I let go of Britta's hand in mine, and circle my arms around her waist, drawing her closer. The green dress is cut low in the back, and I smooth my thumb over her soft skin until it meets the silky fabric at the small of her back.

Her hands travel across my shoulders and around my neck. She's so close, I feel her chest rising and falling in quick breaths. The tip of her tongue darts between her lips. That's all the invitation I need to press my lips to hers.

The trick to riding a barreling wave is to make it last. The force of the wave pushes you forward, but dragging a hand along the wall slows you down. You can ride the wave for longer, all the way to the end, if you can slow down the momentum.

That's what I want now. The air buzzes with an energy that threatens to make this kiss end too quickly. I may never get the chance to kiss Britta like this again, so I slow it down. I run my hand up her back to the space between her shoulders, letting it rest there before deepening our connection.

I know Britta's rules, and I'm determined to keep them. But right now, all I want to do is break them and I think I can get away with it.

To be honest, there aren't many rules I don't want to break. But what I feel now is more than rebellion. The force of the wave barreling around us makes me want to pull Britta closer and keep her safe. So, it's not until she digs her fingers into my back that I rein in my desire.

I want to kiss her so much harder and longer, but even more, I want Britta to trust me. This marriage is primarily a business arrangement, but I want her to understand she's not a commodity to me.

I like Britta.

I like her a lot.

And I don't want her getting hurt in all of this, which, I remember, is the reason for all the rules: to avoid heartbreak. I need to remember that.

Britta breaks away first, letting her hands fall to her side, but our eyes stay locked. She smiles softly, and I can't stop myself from brushing her lips with mine one more time. Then our compartment fills with applause and cheering.

She takes my hand, and we turn to face her family and my friends. Ten minutes later, the wheel stops. Before the doors open, cameras flash in the crowd of people waiting outside the line of ticket holders for the High Roller. In a matter of thirty minutes, people have heard Rhys James is here and gathered to wait for him.

Stella steps off the Ferris wheel first. "Mr. James is here for a wedding and won't be signing autographs. Please respect his privacy," she says at the top of her lungs with all the authority of a girlboss.

I clutch Britta's hand and push my way through the crowd, only looking back once to make sure Rhys is okay. As big a star as he is, he hates this part of being a celebrity. He does whatever he can to avoid being mauled by fans, and he came here knowing it would probably happen.

But Britta's brothers have circled around him like they're trained bodyguards and not guys who just met Rhys a few hours ago.

"Your brothers are good guys," I say to Britta once we've made our way out of the flood of people. Ironically, even though it's my wedding, Rhys takes all the attention and Britta and I end up with a few moments to ourselves.

"The best," she says before pointing behind me. "I think I found our wedding cake."

I look over my shoulder at a Sprinkles Cupcakes vending machine. "Never had them, but if that's what my bride wants, that's what she gets."

While the Thomsen brothers escort Rhys to the waiting Escalade, Britta and I empty the vending machine of all its little cakes, forgetting we only have four hands between us. Both of us are trying to balance a dozen cupcakes each in plastic containers in our arms when I hear someone behind me say, "Dude! You're Liam Dexter!"

I turn to face a kid with wild blonde hair wearing board shorts and thongs. He's definitely a surfer. I can see it in his eyes.

"Yeah, mate. What's your name?" I'd shake his hand, but I don't have a free one myself.

"Brody."

"He's a big fan of yours," says the man next to him. He looks like an older version of the kid and has to be his dad.

"Yeah? Glad to hear it. I'd give you an autograph, but my hands are full." At that moment, a cupcake flies from my arms, upsetting the balance of the rest so that half of them attempt their own escape.

Fortunately, the containers don't open, but they'll be a bit smashed for sure. Brody and his dad scramble to pick them up for me, while Britta shifts back and forth, struggling to keep hers from falling.

"You must really love cupcakes, Dex." Brody tries to hand me one, but his dad takes it from him.

"Where are you taking these? We can help you," he says before taking a few from Britta too.

"Thank you," she says with a breath before smiling at Brody. "They're our wedding cake. We just got married."

I look at her, shocked. Pleasantly. I was holding back making the announcement, afraid she might not like it. So, I'm a bit pleased she's the one who said it first.

"Married?" Brody's dad asks.

Britta and I both nod. I can't see if she's smiling, but I am. I hope she is.

Brody and his dad help us carry the cupcakes to a waiting Rolls Royce Archie arranged for Britta and me. The Escalades are packed and ready to go with our family and friends. I assume Rhys made it inside one of them—the tinted windows make it impossible to see—because there's a crowd of people taking pictures of the cars.

Britta and I get a picture with Brody and his dad, which I'm sure will be our second wedding photo posted online, right after the ones I'm sure Stella's already posted. Then we give them two cupcakes for their help and climb into the car.

The last time we were alone, we weren't married. Now we are. I can't tell what Britta's thinking, but I'm in a bit of shock. She has to be, too.

"I guess I'm Mrs. Dexter now?" Britta asks with a sprinkle of teasing that breaks the tension

"Nah. I'm Mr. Thomsen." I wish I could take her hand, but I don't think she'd like that. At least she laughs at my joke.

"That works for me." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "It's been quite a day."

I blow out a breath. "I'll say."

We go quiet again before I work up the nerve to say what I've wanted to since the minute she walked out of the bathroom in that green dress. "You look really beautiful. This probably wasn't what you dreamed your wedding day would be, but I've never seen a prettier bride."

Britta's lips stretch across her perfect white teeth. "Thanks, Dex. It wasn't the day I planned when I was a little girl, but for a wedding put together in less than forty-eight hours and that I didn't have to spend my dad's life savings on, I have no complaints. Archie did an amazing job planning, and I'm sure Rhys pulled a lot of strings to get us in that secret hotel and on the High Roller last minute. You have good friends."

I nod. I do have the best mates, but I'm stuck on something else she said. "You really had wedding plans when you were a girl?"

She drops her head, and her skin flushes, but she laughs. "I was the only girl in a house full of boys, and a total tomboy. My mom let me play as rough as I wanted, but I was a flower girl a few times. To get me excited, we scrolled through Pinterest looking at weddings." Britta lifts her shoulder, and her dangling gold earring brushes her bare skin. "It kind of stuck. We kept doing it and had all kinds of boards for my future wedding."

"That's sweet…" I rub my hands down my legs. Vegas is too hot, and I hate wearing trousers. "I'm sorry you didn't get that today."

Britta tips her head, thinking. "Without Mom, the wedding plans we made together will always just be Pinterest boards. I'm not sure I'll ever get married for real. If this is my one and only wedding, I couldn't have asked for better."

I put on a smile, but the words ‘married for real' sting. Like getting sprayed coming out of a wave. It's part of surfing, but it still hurts every time.

We're quiet the rest of the way back to the Mansion. When we climb out of the car, everyone is waiting for us. Archie has set up a dinner for all of us in the Mansion's private dining room, so we won't be bothered by onlookers. Britta and I sit by each other, but judging by the looks her dad keeps sending us, he's not convinced Britta and I are marrying for love.

We talk a little, but we're awkward with each other. What's more, I'm awkward with her in a way I've never been. Now that I'm not supposed to touch her, that's all I want to do. Our wedding dinner is likely one of the "appropriate" or "necessary" times we can touch, but I'm like a schoolboy hoping for a first kiss. Britta will have to take the lead, because I can't find what to do with my hands anymore, other than use them to shovel food into my mouth.

I wasn't this nervous at the Finals.

When dinner ends, Georgia suggests we head to the private pools. I look at Britta, who shrugs and says, "Sure."

Georgia's gaze skitters between Britta and me. "What are you talking about? It's your wedding night." She leans between us and lowers her voice. "I'm getting everyone out of your way. Go enjoy yourselves."

I can't look at Britta. Not while Georgia is smiling wider than a ten-year-old who's cracked their first sex joke.

"Whatever you want to do… babe," I manage to say before grabbing Britta's hand, all without looking at her. So, yeah, my hand may have touched a few other body parts before I found her fingers.

"If you two get into a swimming pool instead of enjoying the ‘villa'…'" Georgia makes air quotes here, which only makes things worse. "You have for one night, I'll—I don't actually know what I'll do—be very, very disappointed, I guess." She's not smiling anymore as she turns to Britta. "Do we need to have ‘the talk'? Is that what's happening here? Because I'll do it. We both know your dad would rather do anything but that."

What I learned about Georgia when she lived next door is that she doesn't take no for an answer. Ever. Britta has to know this better than I do, so I wait for her to respond.

"I'm twenty-six, not six, Georgia," Britta says. "I don't need the talk, thank you very much." Britta tugs at my hand. "Should we go to our room… honey ?"

I nod. My mouth has gone dry. We're going to our room. As a married couple. To celebrate our wedding night.

I have no clue what that will look like without touching. I don't remember seeing a TV in our villa, and I didn't bring any board games. I don't even know if Britta likes board games. I should probably know that about my wife, shouldn't I?

Now that I think about it, there's a long list of things I should learn about Britta. Like her birthday. Her favorite color. Her favorite food. Whether she has allergies. That one is important. What if I accidentally kill her with peanuts or cats or something?

These are all my thoughts as we walk in silence to our room, which is bigger than the house I grew up in, but only has one bed. One.

As soon as the door closes behind us, Britta opens her mouth to say something, but I'm already blurting, "Do you have any allergies I should know about?"

She closes her mouth and shakes her head. "Do you?"

"Latex. I can't wear--"

Britta's eyes go wide. My face catches fire as I realize what she's afraid I'm going to say.

" Goggles . I can't wear goggles. If we were to go swimming, or something." Why does the something sound dirty in this context? Why did I even say it? When else would I wear goggles besides to swim?

"Good to know," she says slowly before waving her thumb toward the bathroom. "Do you mind if I use it first? I think I'll sit in that tub, and I may be there for a while."

Sit in the tub? I picture Britta hanging out in the tub, fully clothed, then realize she means she's going to take a bath.

And now I'm not picturing her fully clothed.

I swallow hard. "Sure. Take your time. It's past my bedtime, anyway. I'll make myself a bed on the couch. Can I brush my teeth before you… uh, bathe?"

"Of course."

We look at each other for a few seconds, then I grab my toiletry bag and make my way to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, I'm on a couch that should be more comfortable than it is, based on how much this villa costs per night, listening to the water run as Britta fills her bath, reminding myself to not get distracted.