Chapter 7

chapter

seven

Landry

Since everything was last minute and Linc and Natalie's tickets couldn't be transferred, Brooke and I ended up having to fly into Nashville separately. My flight got in earlier than hers, so I've already rented the car and am idling in the "arrivals" lane to pick her up.

I see her immediately, lugging her big roller bag behind her. I pull over to the curb, hit the hazard lights and jump out.

I grab the bag and toss it easily into the trunk. "Damn, Manhattan, think you brought enough stuff for a single weekend?"

I hold open her door, and she sighs audibly at the sound of my voice. "No one is ever going to believe I'm in love with you."

I laugh, then lean closer, trapping her between the opened car door and my body. "You're already halfway in love with me now. Admit it."

For a brief second, I see the expansion in her pupils, her tiny gasp, then the small bite on her bottom lip. She doesn't want to be, but she's as attracted to me as I am to her. Then she rolls those pretty dark eyes and gets into the car.

I haven't completely decided what all I want this weekend to be, but I know for damn sure I'm doing everything I can to get Brooklyn naked and under me. Pulling the ring out of my pocket, I get in on my side and merge back into the flow of traffic.

"Before I forget, I grabbed this for you to wear. To keep up appearances." I hold my palm out to her with the ring.

She plucks the ring from my hand and looks at it.

I can't really watch her and keep my eyes on the road. As irritating as that is, I focus on driving. I want her to like it. Which is dumb. Who cares if she likes it? We're not engaged for real.

"This is gorgeous, Landry," she says, her voice full of awe.

But I'm a cool cat, so I give a slight nod and put my shades back on. "Glad you like it. Does it fit?"

"Perfectly. Where did you get this?"

I shrug. "It was just laying around the house."

"Really? An antique, art-deco platinum ring with diamond chips was just laying around your house?"

"Why does it matter where I got it. It's just for this weekend," I snap. What the fuck is wrong with me? I wanted her to like it and she does. Curiosity is natural in this kind of situation. I shouldn't be angry with her.

From my periphery, I see her staring at my profile. "Just tell me these two things," she says. "Did you buy it or steal it?"

"Steal it? Wow, think pretty highly of me, don't you? No, I didn't fucking steal it. And I didn't buy it. Can we stop with the incessant questions now?"

"Sure."

We're quiet until we hit the outskirts of Nashville, the interstate cutting through the beginnings of the Smokies.

"We should probably come up with our story," she says.

"What story?"

"Like how we got together, how you proposed, that sort of thing."

"Why do we need a story?"

"Uh, because we're going to a wedding venue with the intent to book our ceremony there. People will ask."

"That doesn't make any sense. Who gives a shit how we got together?"

"Men are so weird. It's a question between women; I can guarantee that. Someone will ask. More than likely multiple someones."

"Sounds damned nosy to me."

She releases a sound of exasperation. "Do you have to make everything more difficult?"

"You're the one who started this conversation."

She swears under her breath. "Normal people make polite conversation. They ask questions like that."

"Still think it's no one's fucking business."

"It's alarming to me how often I want to hit you with something."

I laugh. Fuck. With this woman, sitting in the car and talking about nonsense feels like foreplay. "Okay, so then tell me about this backstory of ours. How did we meet?"

"You saw me across a crowded room and just had to meet me."

I snort. "That's boring. We can do better than that."

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "Maybe I can just tell people you're mute."

I laugh. "You've known me long enough to know it's unlikely I'll shut up for any length of time."

"Isn't that the damn truth. You must have driven your poor mama crazy with all your words and antics."

That hits me hard, but I don't want to ruin this drive with that dose of drama. Plus, she's smiling, and damn if I wouldn't do just about anything to be the reason Brooklyn James smiles.

"Okay, what about this? We're rival scientists forced to work on the same secret project together for NASA. And I think you hate me, but you've secretly been in love with me for years."

"The fuck, woman? Do I look like a NASA scientist? I don't even look like a science teacher."

She giggles and the sound surges electricity through my body. That. I need a hit of that sound every day for the rest of my life.

"Okay, good point. Um, oh! You're a professional hockey player with a bad reputation off the ice and on it. And I was the PR expert hired to improve your image, but we fell in love."

"If I was a professional hockey player, don't ya think people would recognize me? I mean with my face and my bod, I'd have endorsements out my ass. Probably endorsements for my ass."

"Ohmygod, you're so ridiculous," she says, but she's smiling and laughing. "Alright Mr. Smartypants, what do you suggest?"

"Easy, I saw you in a bar and thought you had great tits. So I asked you out?"

"Ugh, who hurt you? That is so unromantic!"

"Partially true. You do have fantastic tits."

Her arm goes across her chest. "Stop looking at my boobs."

"Manhattan, you're my fiancée for the weekend. I'm pretty sure that means I can look at your tits. I'm fair though, so I'll let you check out the rest of my piercings."

"We are never going to make it through this weekend. But we are absolutely not telling our grandkids that you liked my boobs. That's a terrible origin story."

"I'm pretty sure I can tell our theoretical grandkids whatever the fuck I want. You tell your story and I'll tell mine."

She huffs. "Then obviously, I've been tricked into thinking you're the perfect guy. But you're actually marrying me for my money and planning to murder me on our honeymoon."

"Do you have any money?" I ask.

"Not anymore." Her voice is small and tinged with sadness.

"Hey, sorry about your vineyard. Linc told me. That's rough."

"Thanks."

I reach over to grab her hand and she flinches out of my way.

"Just trying to hold your hand," I say.

"Why?"

"Uh, cause you're my fiancée and I'm a touchy-feely kind of guy."

"You don't need to be touching or feeling anything of mine."

"That's just it, Manhattan. Looking like we're comfortable with each other is far more important to selling us as a couple than how we met."

"No kissing," she says.

"I'm not making any promises."

"Whatever. You can hold my hand; that's it."

"Wow, sounds just like fifth grade again."